Can you keep a secret?
by OptimusPrime's Girlfriend
Summary: Hot Rod has secrets who he hasn't shared with anyone until he spills them all to a handsome mech on a shuttle. Back at his office, he is suddenly face to face with the stranger from the shuttle, a mech who knows every single humiliating detail about him... I promise it's better than it sounds. You might not like it at first but I think it gets better as the story goes on.
1. Chapter 1

First off I would like to say that this story is based off of "Can you keep a secret?" by Sophie Kinsella.

I used the main ideas of her story and instead of using her characters I substituted transformers characters. I added some modifications as best as I could, but if you find anything that needs to be corrected let me know please.

I also don't own any of the transformers characters, that belongs to Hasbros.

I know some of you might be wondering why I have certain characters as some people that doesn't seem to fit their character, but I tried to fit most of the transformers characters as well as I could with the original characters personalities.

Lastly I have the unit of time measurement down below in cybertronian form.

Sparkling - Newborn

Youngling - Child

Breem - 8.3 Earth minutes

Joor - About 6.5 Earth hours

Orn - About 13 Earth day

Cycle - About 3 Earth weeks

Stellar Cycle - About 73 Earth Months

Vorn - About 83 Earth years

Enjoy!

* * *

Can you keep a secret?

Chapter 1

Of course I have secrets.

Of course I do. Everyone has a few secrets. It's completely normal.

I'm not talking about big, cybertron-shattering secrets. Not the-prime-is-planning-to-bomb-Kaon-and-only-OmegaSupreme-can-save-the-planet type secrets. Just normal, everyday little secrets.

Like, for example, here are a few random secrets of mine, off the top of my head:

1. I love sweet coolant, the least cool highgrade drink in the universe.

2. I've always thought my boyfriend, Prowl looks a bit too perfect...

3. Sometimes, when we're right in the middle of a passionate interface, I suddenly want to laugh.

4. I lost my virginity in the spare bedroom with Blaster while Mom and Dad were downstairs.

5. I've already drunk the Special High-Grade that Dad told me to save for 20 vorns.

6. When my colleague Cliffjumper really annoys me, I feed his organic plant with spiced energon. (Which is pretty much every orn.)

7. I once had this weird sexual dream about my roommate Bumblebee. (Which was definitely creepy considering I think of him as a brother.)

8. I've always had this deep-down conviction that I'm not like everybody else, and there's an amazingly exciting new life waiting for me just around the corner.

9. I have no idea what this mech in the blue armor is going on about.

10. Plus, I've already forgotten his name.

And I only met him 10 breems ago.

"We believe in multi-logistical formative alliances," he's saying in a nasal, droning voice, "both above and below the line."

"Absolutely!" I reply brightly, as though to say "Doesn't everybody?"

Multi-logistical. What does that mean, again?

Oh Primus. What if they ask me?

Don't be stupid, Hot Rod. They won't suddenly demand, what does "multi-logistical" mean? I'm a fellow marketing professional, aren't I? Obviously I know these things.

And anyway, if they mention it again, I'll change the subject. Or I'll say I'm post-logistical or something.

The important thing is to keep confident and businesslike. I can do this. This is my big chance, and I'm not going to screw it up.

I'm sitting in the offices of Glen Energon's headquarters in Gygax, and as I glance at my reflection in the window, I look just like a top businessmech. I've got my smart, new, elegant Pristine armor. (At least, it's practically new. I got it from the Virus Research shop and replaced a screw that was missing, and you can hardly tell.) My armor is shining radiantly, after half a joor with cleaning rag and a bottle of polishing wax. My flames on my torso are standing out much more without looking to desperate, just like they tell you to in how-to-win-that-job articles.

I'm here representing Praxus Corporation, which is where I work. The meeting is to finalize a promotional arrangement between the new cranberry-flavored Praxus Prime racing energon drink and Glen Energon, and I flew up this morning from Praxus, especially.

When I arrived, the two Glen Energon marketing mechs started on this long, show-offy "who's traveled the most?" conversation about speeding distances and the red-eye to Crystal City—and I think I bluffed pretty convincingly. But the truth is, this is the first time I've ever had to travel for work.

OK. The _real_ truth is, this is the first business meeting I've attended on my own, I've been at the Praxus Corporation for 11 stellar cycles as a marketing assistant, which is the bottom level in our department. I started off just doing menial tasks like typing letters, getting the energon treats, and collecting my boss Sentinel's mail. But after a couple of stellar cycles, I was allowed to start checking copy. Then a few stellar cycles ago, I got to write my very own promotional leaflet, for a tie-in with polishing wax! Primus, I was excited. I bought a creative-writing pad especially to help me, and I spent 2 orns working on it. And I was really pleased with the result, even if it didn't have a misunderstood villain like the pad suggested. And even if Sentinel did just glance at the copy and say "Fine" and kind of forgot to tell anyone that I wrote it.

Since then I've done a fair bit of writing promotional literature, and I've even sat in on a few meetings with Sentinel. So I really think I'm moving up the ladder. In lots of ways I'm practically a marketing executive already!

Except for the tiny point that I still seem to do just as much typing as before. And getting energon treats and collecting mail. I just do it as _well_ as the other jobs. Especially so since our departmental secretary, Blast Off, left about 30 orns ago and still hasn't been replaced.

But it's all going to change; I know it is. This meeting is my big break. It's my first chance to show Sentinel what I'm really capable of I had to beg him to let me go—after all, Glen Energon and Praxus Corporation have done loads of deals together in the past; it's not like there'll be any surprises. But deep down I know I'm here only because I was I his office when he realized he'd double-booked with an awards lunch that most of the department was attending. So here I am, representing the company.

And my secret hope is that if I do well today, I'll get promoted. The job ad said "possibility of promotion after a vorn"—and it's nearly been a vorn. And in two orns I'm having my appraisal meeting. I looked up "Appraisal" in the staff induction pad, and it said they are "an ideal opportunity to discuss possibilities for career advancement."

Career advancement! At the thought, I feel a familiar stab of longing. It would just show Dad I'm not a complete loser. And mum. And Tracks. If I could just go home and say, "By the way, I've been promoted to marketing executive."

Hot Rod, marketing executive.

Hot Rod, senior vice-president (marketing).

As long as everything goes well today. Sentinel said the deal was pretty much done and dusted, and all I had to do was raise one point about timing, and even I should be able to manage that. And so far, I reckon it's going really well!

OK, so I don't understand some of the terms they're using. But then I didn't understand most of my GCSE Vos Oral either, and I still got a B.

"Rebranding…analysis…cost-effective…"

The man in the blue armor is still droning on. As casually as possible, I extend my hand and inch his business card toward me so I can read it.

Ultra Magnus. That's right. I can remember doing this. Magnus. Mag-nus. Easy—I'll picture a mag…net? Together with a…

Ok forget this. I'll just write it down.

I write down "rebranding" and "Ultra Magnus" on my pad and give an uncomfortable little wriggle. Primus this new armor is killing me. I hate the first time you wear new armor; it's all stiff and uncomfortable. That's why I never buy new armor.

Actually, it was fine. My boyfriend, Prowl bought me the armor. It's a Pristine armor, one of the finest. He's so kind and thoughtful...Even though it's actually a knockoff from a Virus Research Facility, and I had to replace a missing screw. But as long as Prowl doesn't find out, it's fine. He would be crushed if he knew.

Since then, I've hardly ever worn this particular set of armor, needless to say. But every so often I seen it, looking all nice and expensive, and think, Oh, come on, it can't be _that_ tight, and somehow squeeze into it. Which is what I did this morning. I even decided I must have started breaking it in, because it doesn't feel as uncomfortable and stiff as it usually does.

I am such a deluded moron.

"…unfortunately, since rebranding…major rethink…fell we need to be considering alternative synergies…"

Up to now I've just been sitting and nodding, thinking this business meeting is really easy. But now Ultra Magnus's voice starts to impinge on my consciousness. What's he saying?

"…two precuts diverging…becoming incompatible…"

What was that about incompatible? What was that about a major rethink? I feel a jolt of alarm.

"We appreciate the functional and synergetic partnership that Praxus Corp. and Glen Energon have enjoyed in the past," Ultra Magnus is saying, "but you'll agree that clearly we're going in different directions."

Different directions?

My tank gives an anxious lurch.

He can't be—

Is he trying to pull out of the deal?

"Excuse me, Magnus," I say in my most relaxed voice, "Obviously I was closely following what you were saying earlier." I give a friendly, we're-all-professionals-together smile. "But if you could just…um, recap the situation for all our benefits…"

In plain Cybertron, I beg silently.

Ultra Magnus and the other mech exchange glances.

"We're a little unhappy about your brand values," says Ultra Magnus.

"My brand values?" I echo in panic.

"The brand values of the _product_," he says, giving me an odd look. "As I've been explaining, we here at Glen Energon are going through a rebranding process at the moment, and we see our new image very much as a _caring_ source of energon, as our new daffodil logo demonstrates. And we feel Praxus Prime, with its emphasis on racing and competition, is simply too aggressive."

"Aggressive?" I stare at him in bewilderment. "But…it's a crusted drink." This makes no sense. Glen Energon is fume-making, world-ruining petrol. Praxus Prime is an innocent crusted-flavored drink. How can it be too aggressive?

"The value is espoused." He gestures to the marketing brochures on the table. "Drive. Elitism. Masculinity. The very slogan 'Don't Pause.' Frankly, it seems a little dated." He shrugs. "We just don't think a joint initiative will be possible."

No. No. This can't be happening. He can't be pulling out.

Everyone at the office will think it was my fault. They'll think I fragged it up and I'm completely stupid.

My spark is thumping. My face plate is hot. I can't let this happen. But what do I say? I haven't prepared anything. Sentinel said the promotion was all set up, and all I had to do was tell them we wanted to bring it forward to June.

"We'll certainly discuss it again before we make a decision," Magnus's saying. He gives me a brief smile. "And as I say, we would like to continue links with the Praxus Corporation, so this has been a useful meeting, in any case…"

He's pushing back his chair.

I can't let this slip away! I have to try to win them around.

"Wait!" I hear myself say. "Just…wait a moment! I have a few points to make."

There's a cube of Praxus Prime sitting on the desk, and I grab it for inspiration. Playing for time, I stand up, walk to the center of the room, and raise the cube high into the air where all can see it. "Praxus Prime is…a racing drink."

I stop, and there's a polite silence. My face plate is prickling. "It, ums, it is very…"

Oh, Primus. What am I doing?

Come _on_, Hot Rod. _Think_. Think Praxus Prime…Think Praxus Energon…Think…Think…

Yes! Of course!

"Since the launch of Praxus Energon 50 vorns ago, Praxus drinks have been byword for energy, excitement, and excellence," I say fluently.

Thank Primus. This is the standard marketing blurb for Praxus Eneregon. I've typed it out so many times, I could recite it in my recharge.

"Praxus drinks are a marketing phenomenon," I continue. "The Praxus character is one of the most widely recognized in the world, while the classic slogan 'Don't Pause' has made it into dictionaries. We are offering Glen Energon an exclusive opportunity to strengthen its association with this premium, world-famous brand."

My confidence growing, I start to stride around the room, gesturing with the cube. "By buying a Praxus healthy drink, the consumer is signaling that he will settle for nothing but the best." I hit the cube sharply with my other hand. "He expects the best from his energy drink, he expects the best from his petrol, he expects the best from himself."

I'm flying! I'm fantastic! If Sentinel could see me now, he'd give me a promotion on the spot!

I come over to the desk and look Ultra Magnus right in the optics. "When the Praxus consumer opens that cube, he is making a choice that tells the world who he is. I'm asking Glen Energon to make the same choice."

As I finish speaking, I plant the cube firmly in the middle of the desk, reach for the ring pull, and, with a cool smile, snap it back.

A volcano erupts.

Thick red crusted-flavored energon explodes in a whoosh out of the cube, drenching the pads, blotters in lurid red liquid…and—oh, no, please no—spattering all over Ultra Magnus's armor.

"Frag!" I gasp. "I mean, I'm really sorry—"

"Primus," says Ultra Magnus irritably, standing up and getting a cloth out of his subspace. "Does this stuff stain?"

"Er…" I grab the cube helplessly. "I don't know."

"I'll get some more cloths," says the other guy, and leaps to his feet. The door closes behind him and there's silence, apart from the sound of crusted energon dripping slowly onto the floor.

I stare at Ultra Magnus, my face plate hot and energon throbbing through my audios.

"Please…" My voice is husky. "Don't tell my boss."

* * *

Ok, so I redid this chapter and I will be redoing all/some of the other chapters to. I've just changed a few things that I think will make this story better than it was.

Thank you all


	2. Chapter 2

Once again, this story is based off of **"Can you keep a secret?" by Sophie Kinsella** and I do not own Transformers.

Ok, so here is Chapter 2!

Sparkling - Newborn

Youngling - Child

Breem - 8.3 Earth minutes

Joor - About 6.5 Earth hours

Orn - about 13 Earth days

Cycle – About 3 Earth weeks

Stellar Cycle – About 73 Earth months

Vorn - About 83 Earth years

Enjoy!

* * *

Can you keep a secret?

Chapter 2

After all that, I screwed it up.

As I drag my feet across the concourse at Gygax Shuttleport, I feel completely dejected. Ultra Magnus was quite sweet in the end. He said he was sure the stain would come out of his armor, and promised he wouldn't tell Sentinel what happened. But he didn't change his mind about the deal.

My first big chance—and this is what happens. I feel like calling the office and saying, "That's it. I'm never coming back again, and by the way, it was me who jammed the photocopier that time."

But I can't. This is my third career in four vorns. It _has_ to work. For my own self-worth. For my own self-esteem. And also because I owe my dad four thousand credits.

I've arrived at the shuttleport with a joor to go, and have headed straight for the bar, "So what can I get you?" says a Tyger Pax bartender, and I look up at him in a daze.

"Ern…" My processor is blank. "Er, white special high-grade. No, actually, a coolant and tonic. Thanks."

As he moves away, I slump down again in my stool. An air hostess with a pink helm comes and sits down two bar stools away. She smiles at me, and I smile weakly in return.

I don't know how other bots manage their careers, I really don't. Like my oldest friend, Bumblebee. He's always known he wanted to be a lawyer—and now, ta-daah! He's a fraud barrister. But I left the academy with absolutely no clue. My first job was in an estate agency, and I only went into it because I've always quite liked looking around houses, plus I met this femme with amazing red lacquered armor at a career fair who told me she made so much money, she'd be able to retire when she was 800 vorns old.

But the breem I started, I hated it. I hated all the other trainee estate agents. I hated saying things like "a lovely aspect." And I hated the way if someone said they could afford three hundred thousand we were supposed to give them details of housed costing at least four hundred thousand, and then kind of look down our nose plates, like, "You only have three hundred thousand credits? Primus, you complete loser."

So after six stellar cycles I announced I was changing careers and was going to be a photographer instead. It was _such_ a fantastic moment, like in a film or something. My dad lent me the credits for a photography course and camerabot, and I was going to launch this amazing new creative career, and it was going to be the start of my new life…

Except it didn't quite happen like that.  
For a start, do you have any idea how much a photographer's assistant gets paid?  
Nothing. It's nothing

Which, you know, I wouldn't have minded if anyone had actually _offered_ me a photographer's assistant job.

I heave a sigh and gaze at my doleful expression in the mirror behind the bar. At least I wasn't the only one who didn't get anywhere.

Out of the eight bots in my course, one became instantly successful and now takes photos for _Toxic_, one became a photographer for bonding ceremonies, one had an affair with the tutor, one went traveling, one had a sparkling, one works at Snappy Snaps, and one is now at Raiders.

Meanwhile, I got more and more into debt, so I started temping and applying for jobs that actually paid credits. And eventually, eleven stellar cycles ago, I started as a marketing assistant at the Praxus Corporation.

The barmech places a coolant and tonic in from of me and gives me a quizzical look. "Cheer up!" he says. "It can't be that bad!"

"Thanks," I say gratefully, and take a sip. That feels a bit better.

I ought to comm Sentinel and give him a report. But I just can't face it. Anyway, he's probably still out at his awards lunch. He won't want me disturbing him on his comm. unit. It can wait until Monday.

I'm just taking a second sip of coolant when my comm. starts to ring. I feel a beat of nerves. If it's the office, I'll just pretend I didn't hear.

But it's not; it's our home code flashing across the link.

I press 'answer.' "Hi," I say.

"Hiya!" comes Bumblebee's voice. "Only me! So how did it go?"

Bumblebee is not only my oldest friend but my roommate, too. He has gleaming yellow armor with a few black plates and an IQ about 600 and is the sweetest bot I know.

"It was a disaster," I say miserably.

"It can't have been that bad!"

"Bumblebee, I drenched the marketing director of Glen Energon in crusted energon!"

Along the bar, I can see the air hostess hiding a smile, and I feel myself flush. Great. Now the whole world knows.

"Oh, dear." I can almost _feel_ Bumblebee trying to think of something positive to say. "Well, at least you got their attention!" he says at last. "At least they won't forget you in a hurry."

"I suppose," I say morosely. "So, did I have any messages?"

"Oh! Erm, no. I mean, your dad did comm, but, um, you know, it wasn't…" He trails off evasively.

"Bumblebee. What did he want?"

There's a pause.

"Apparently your cousin's won some industry award," he says apologetically. "They're going to be celebrating it on Saturday, as well as your mom's birthday."

"Oh. Great."

I slump deeper in my chair. That's all I need. My cousin Tracks triumphantly clutching some best-office-furniture-salesperson-in-the-whole-planet-no-make-that-universe trophy.

"And Prowl comm, too, to see how you got on," adds Bumblebee quickly. "He was really sweet. He said he didn't want to comm. you during your meeting, in case it disturbed you."

"Really?"

For the first time today, I feel a lift in spirits.  
Prowl. My boyfriend. My lovely, thoughtful, boyfriend.

"He's such a sweetspark!" Bumblebee is saying. "He said he's tied up in a big meeting all afternoon, but he's canceled his drinks party especially, so do you want to go out to supper tonight?"

"Oh," I say, pleased. "Oh, well, that'll be nice. Thanks, Bumblebee."

I cut the connection and take another sip of coolant, feeling much more cheerful.  
My boyfriend.  
It's just like the bot said, Windcharger, or something like that. When the turbofox bites, when the sparks stings…I simply remember I have a boyfriend—and suddenly things don't seem quite so completely fragged.  
Or however she put it.

And not just any boyfriend. A tall, handsome, clever boyfriend, whom _Marketing Week_ called "one of the brightest sparks in marketing research today."

I sit nursing my coolant, allowing thoughts of Prowl to comfort me. The way his armor shines in the sunlight and the way he's always smiling at me. And the way he upgraded all of my software for me without my even asking, and the way he…he…

My processors gone blank. This is ridiculous, I mean, there's so much that is wonderful about Prowl. From his…his long legs. Yes. And his broad shoulders. To the time he looked after me when I had a virus. I mean, how many boyfriends do that? Exactly.  
I'm so lucky. I really am.

I do a double check of my chronological timer. Forty breems before the flight. Not long to go now. Nerves are starting to creep over me like organic insects, and I take a deep gulp of coolant, draining my cube.

It'll be fine, I tell myself for the zillionth time. It'll be absolutely fine. I'm not frightened. I'm just…I'm just…  
Ok. I'm frightened.

11. I'm scared of flying.

I've never told anyone I'm scared of flying. It just sounds so lame. And I mean, it's not like I'm phobic or anything. It's not like I can't get _on_ a shuttle. It's just…all things being equal; I would prefer to be on the ground. I'm called a _grounder_ for a reason.

On the way up here this morning, I was so excited about the meeting, it was almost a distractions from my fear. But even so, I kept feeling bursts of panic. I kept having to turn of my optics and take deep breaths. And ever since I landed, it's been ticking away at the back of my processor: I have to fly back again. I have to get on a shuttle again.

I never used to be scared. But over the last few vorns, I've gradually got more and more nervous. I know it's completely irrational. I know thousands of bots fly every orn and it's practically safer than lying in a berth. You have less chance of being in a shuttle crash than…than finding a mech in Iacon or something.

But still. I just don't like it.  
Maybe I'll have another quick coolant.  
By the time my flight is called, I've drunk two more coolants and am feeling a lot more positive. I mean, Bumblebee's right. At least I made an impression, didn't I? At least they'll remember who I am.

As I stride toward the gate, clutching my briefcase, I almost start to feel like a confident businessmech again. A couple of bots smile at me as they pass, and I smile broadly back, feeling a warm glow of friendliness. You see. The planet's not so bad after all. It's all just a question of being positive. Anything can happen in life, can't it? You never know what's around the next corner.

I reach the entrance to the shuttle, and there at the door taking boarding passes, is the air hostess with the pink helm who was sitting at the bar earlier.

"Hi again!" I say, smiling. "This is a coincidence!"

The air hostess stares at me. "Hi. Erm…"

"What?" Why does she look embarrassed?

"Sorry. It's just…Did you know that…" She gestures awkwardly to my front.

"What is it?" I say pleasantly. I look down, and freeze, aghast.

Somehow my red armor chest plate has been unscrewing itself while I've been walking along. Three screws have come undone and it's gaping at the front.

That's why those bots were smiling at me. Not because the planet is a nice place but because I'm Unscrewed-Red-Armor Mech walking around with part of his spark showing.

"Thanks," I mutter, and quickly screw back the bolts with fumbling fingers, my face plate how with humiliation.

"It hasn't been your orn, has it?" says the air hostess sympathetically, holding out a hand from my boarding pass. "Sorry. I couldn't help overhearing earlier."

"That's all right." I raise a half smile. "No, it hasn't been the best orn of my life." There's a short silence as she studies my boarding pass.

"Tell you what," she says in a low voice. "Would you like an onboard upgrade?"

"A what?"

"Come on. You deserve a break."

"Really? But…can you just upgrade bots like that?"

"If there are spare seats, we can. We use our discretion. And this flight is so short." She gives me a conspiratorial smile. "Just don't tell anyone, Ok?"

She leads me into the front section of the shuttle and gestures to a big, wide seat. I've never been upgraded on a shuttle before in my life! I can't quite believe she's really letting me do this.

"Is this first class?" I whisper, taking in the hushed luxury atmosphere. A mech in is tapping on a datapad to my right, and two elderly femmes in the corner are plugging themselves into headsets.

"Business class. There's no first class on this flight." She lifts her voice to a normal volume. "Is everything Ok for you?

"It's perfect! Thanks very much."

"No problem." She smiles again and walks away, and I plop down into one of the coziest seats I've ever seen.

Wow. This is lovely. Comfortable seats, and footrests, and everything. This is going to be a completely pleasurable experience from start to finish. I reach for my seat belt harness and buckle it up nonchalantly, trying to ignore the flutters of apprehension in my tank.

"Would you like some highgrade?" It's my friend the air hostess, beaming down at me.

"That would be great," I say. "Thanks!"  
Highgrade!  
"And for you, sir? Some highgrade?"

There's a mech in the seat next to mine who hasn't even looked up yet. He has blue and red armor with shining gold flames across his body and is staring out of the window. As he turns to answer, I catch a glimpse of dark midnight blue optics, a deep frown etched on his forehelm plating.

"Just oiled coolant. Thanks."

His voice is dry and has an accent that sounds like he's from Crystal City. I'm about to ask politely where he's from, but he immediately turns back and stares out the window again.  
Which is fine, because to be honest I'm not much in the mood for talking either.

* * *

Here's the next revised chapter. Not much that changed but still a little bit.

Thanks


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: This story is based off of Sophie Kinsella's book. I don't own any of the Transformer's mentioned in this story.**

Sparkling - Newborn

Youngling - Child

Breem - 8.3 Earth minutes

Joor - About 6.5 Earth hours

Orn - about 13 Earth days

Cycle – About 3 Earth weeks

Stellar Cycle – About 73 Earth months

Vorn - About 83 Earth years

Enjoy!

* * *

**Can you keep a secret?**

**Chapter 3**

Ok. The truth is, I don't like this.

I know its business class; I know it's all a lovely luxury. But my tank is still in a tight knot of fear.

It's about 10 breems into the flight, and they've switched off the seat belt signs. While we were taking off, I counted very slowly with my optics closed, and that kind of worked. But I ran out of steam at three hundred and fifty, so now I'm just sitting, sipping high grade, attempting to read an article called "30 Things to Do Before You're 30" in _UpGrade_. I'm trying really hard to look like a relaxed business-class top marketing executive. But every tiny sound makes me start; every vibration makes my intakes stall.

With an outward veneer of calm, I reach for the laminated safety instructions and run my optics over them for the fifth time. _Safety exits. Brace position. If life jackets are required, please assist the elderly and younglings first. _Oh, Primus—

Why am I even _looking_ at this? How will it help me to gaze at pictures of little stick bots jumping into a sea of oil while their shuttle explodes behind them? I stuff the safety instructions quickly back into their pocket and take a gulp of high grade.

To distract myself, I look around the cabin of the shuttle. The two elderly femmes I noticed earlier are both laughing at something. The mech with the pad is still typing. Behind him is a little yellow mech of maybe two vorns, sitting with a beautiful dark femme. As I watch, the youngling drops a plastic wheel on the floor. It rolls away, and immediately he starts to wail. The two elderly femme's pause in their laughter, and I'm aware of the mech next to me looking up.

"Is everything Ok? Can I help?" An air hostess is rushing to the youngling's seat.

"Don't worry." The dark femme waver her arm. "He'll calm down."

"Are you his creator?" The air hostess smiles at her.

"Guardian." She reaches in her bag and produces an oiled pop which she starts to unwrap. "He'll keep quiet now."

"Excuse me," I say. "He dropped his toy." Everyone turns to look at me and I flush. "That might be why he's crying," I explain.

The dark femme looks at me without expression. "It's just a piece of plastic. He'll get over it." She jams the oiled pop in the youngling's mouth, and he starts to suck it, but tears are rolling down his cheek plates.

Poor little thing. Isn't she even going to _try_ to get the toy?

Suddenly my optic is caught by a patch of bright color on the floor. It's the wheel. It's rolled under a row of empty seats, right over to the windows.

"Oh!" I say. "Look—there it is!"

To my slight disbelief, his guardian shrugs. "He's not bothered," she says.

"He _is _bothered!" I retort. "Don't worry," I add to the youngling, "_I'll_ help you."

Telling myself it can make absolutely no difference to the safety of the shuttle if I stand up, I unbuckle my seat belt. Somehow I force myself to my feet. Then, with everyone's optics on me, I bend coolly down to retrieve the wheel.

Ok. Now I can't reach the bloody thing.

Well, I'm not giving up, after I've made this big deal about it. Without looking at anyone, I lie right down on the shuttle floor.

Oh, Primus. It's more wobbly than I expected. What if the floor suddenly collapsed and I fell through the sky?

No. Stop it. Nothing's going to collapse. I shuffle forward, stretch as far possible… and at last my fingers close around the plastic wheel. As nonchalantly as I can, I get to my feet, banging my elbow on a seat tray, and hand the plastic wheel to the little youngling.

"Here," I say in my best all-in-a-orn's-work voice, "I think this is yours."

He clasps it tightly to his chest, and I glow with pride.

A moment later, he hurls the wheel on the floor, and it rolls away, to almost exactly the same place. The guardian gives a stifled giggle, and I can see one of the elderly femmes smiling.

"Right," I say after a pause. "Right. Well… enjoy your flight."

I get back into my seat, trying to look unfazed, as though that is what I planned all along.

"Nice try," says they Crystal City mech next to me, and I turn, suspicious. But he doesn't look as if he's laughing at me.

"Oh." I hesitate. "Thanks."

I buckle up my seat belt and reach for my magazine again. That's it. I'm not moving from this seat again.

"Excuse me, sir." An air hostess with red armor has appeared by my side. "Are you traveling on business?"

"Yes," I say. "Yes, I am."

She hands me a leaflet titled "Executive Facilities," on where there's a photo of businessbots talking animatedly in front of a clippad with a wavy graph on it.

"This is some information about our new business-class-lounge at Gatwick. We provide full conference call facilities and meeting rooms, should you require them. Would you be interested?"

I am a top businessmech. I am a top high-flying business executive.

"Quite possibly," I say, looking casually at the leaflet. "Yes, I may well use one of these rooms to … brief my team. I have a large team, and obviously they need a lot of briefing. On business matters." I clear my throat. "Mostly… multi-logistical."

"I see." The hostess looks a little nonplussed.

"Actually, while you're here," I add, "I was just wondering. Is that sound normal?"

"What sound?" The air hostess cocks her helm.

"That sound. That kind of whining, coming from the wing?"

"I can't hear anything." She looks at my sympathetically. "Are you a nervous flyer?"

"No!" I say at once, and give a little laugh. "No, I'm not _nervous_! I just… was wondering. Just out of interest."

"I'll see if I can find out for you," she says kindly. "Here you are, sir. Some information about our executive facilities at Gatwick."

The mech next to me takes his leaflet wordlessly and slips it into the seat pocket in front of him without even looking at it. The hostess moves on, staggering a little as the shuttle gives a bump.

Why is the shuttle bumping?

Oh, Primus. An avalanche of fear hits me with no warning. This is madness. Madness! Sitting in this big, heavy box with no way of escape, thousands and thousands of feet above the ground…

I can't do this on my own. I have an overpowering need to talk to someone. Someone reassuring. Someone safe.

Prowl.

Instinctively I bring my comm. unit back online, but immediately the air hostess swoops down on me.

"I'm afraid you can't activate that on board the shuttle," she says with a bright smile. "Could you please ensure that it's switched offline?"

"Oh. Er, sorry."

Of course I can't use my comm. system. They've only said it about fifty-five zillion times. I am such a dumb-aft.

Should I use the seat comm. unit?

No. It doesn't matter. I don't need to bother Prowl. It's ridiculous. This is just a tiny flight from Gygax. I'm fine. I turn my comm. system offline and look at my internal clock.

Only five breems have passed since I last looked. Fifty-five to go.

Ok, don't think about that. Just take each breem as it comes. I lean back and try to concentrate on the old episode of _Fawlty Towers_ that is showing on the screen.

Maybe I'll start counting again. Three hundred and forty-nine. Three hundred and fifty. Three hundred and—

Frag. My helm jerks up. What was that bump? Did we just get _hit_?

Ok, don't panic. It was just a bump. I'm sure everything's fine. We probably just flew into a seeker or something. Where was I?

Three hundred and fifty-one. Three hundred and fifty-two. Three hundred and fifty—

And then I hear the scream like a wave over my head, almost before I realized It's happening.

Oh, Primus. Oh Primus, oh Primus, oh Primus, oh…OH…NO. NO. NO.

We're falling. Oh, Primus, we're falling.

The shuttle's plummeting through the air like an organic rock. A mech across from me just shot up through the air and banged his helm on the ceiling. He's leaking energon. I'm clutching on to the arms of my seat, but I can feel myself being wrenched upward; It's like somebot's tugging me, like gravity's suddenly switched the other way. Bots are flying around, drinks are spilling, one of the cabin crew has fallen over, she's gripping a seat…

Oh, Primus. Oh, Primus. Ok, the shuttle is leveling off now. It's…It's better.

I look at the Crystal City mech, and he's grasping on to his seat as tightly as I am.

I feel sick. I think I might purge.

"Gentlemech and Femmes," comes a voice over the intercom unit, and everyone looks up. "This is your captain speaking."

My spark is juddering in my chest. I can't listen. I can't think.

"We're currently hitting some clear-air turbulence, and things may be unsteady for a while. I have switched on the seat belt signs and would ask you all return to your seats as quickly as—"

There's another huge lurch, and his voice is drowned by screams and cries all around the shuttle.

It's like a bad dream. A bad roller-coaster dream.

The cabin crew are all strapping themselves into their seats. One of the hostess is mopping energon on her face. A breem ago they were happily doling out honey-roasted Knuts.

I always knew something like this was going to happen to me. I just knew. All those bots who said flying was perfectly safe—they were lying.

"We have to keep calm!" one of the elderly femmes is saying. "Everyone, keep calm!"

Keep _calm?_ I can't breathe through my intakes, let alone keep calm. What are we going to do? Are we all supposed to just _sit_ here while the shuttle violently jumps around?

I can hear somebot behind me reciting "Hail Primus, full of grace…" and a fresh, chocking panic sweeps through me. Bots are praying. This is real.

We're going to die. We're going to die.

"I'm sorry?" The Crystal City mech in the next seat looks at me, his face tense and paler looking.

Did I just say that aloud?

"We're going to die." I stare into his face. This could be the last mech I every see alive. I take in the lines, etched around his dark optics; his strong jaw, shaded bright red.

The shuttle suddenly drops again, and I give an involuntary shriek.

"I don't think we're going to die," he says. "They said it was just turbulence—"

"Of course they did!" I can hear the hysteria in my voice. "They wouldn't exactly say, 'OK , folks, that's it—you're all goners'!"

The shuttle gives another terrifying swoop, and I find myself clutching the mech's hand in panic. "We're not going to make it. I know we're not. This is it. I'm twenty-four vorns, for Primus's sake. I'm not ready. I haven't achieved anything. I've never had younglings. I've never saved a life. The one time I tried to do the Heimlich maneuver, the mech thought I was coming on to him…" I feel myself clutching the pad in my lap, still open at the "30 Things to Do Before You're 30" article. "I haven't ever climbed a mountain, I haven't got a tattoo, I don't even _know _if I've got sensory nodes…"

"I'm sorry?" says the mech, sounding taken aback, but I barely hear him.

"My career's a complete joke. I'm not a top businessmech at all." I gesture half tearfully to my armor. "I haven't got a team! I'm just a crappy assistant, and I just had my first-ever big meeting and it was a complete disaster. Half the time I haven't got a clue what people are talking about. I don't know what multi-logistical means, I'm never going to get promoted, and I owe my creators four thousand credits, and I've never really been in love…"

The shuttle levels off again, and I draw myself up short with a jolt. "I'm sorry," I say, and exhale sharply, "You don't want to hear all this."

"That's quite all right," says the mech.

Primus, I'm completely losing it.

And anyway, what I just said wasn't true. Because I am in love with Prowl. It must be the altitude or something, confusing my processor.

Flustered, I grip my helm and try to get hold of myself. Ok, let's try counting once more. Three hundred and fifty…six. Three hundred and—

Oh, Primus. Oh, Primus. No. Please. The shuttle's lurching again. We're plummeting.

"I've never done anything to make my creators proud of me." The words come spilling out of my mouth before I can stop them. "Never."

"I'm sure that's not true," says the mech kindly.

"It's true. Maybe they used to be proud of me. But then my cousin Tracks came to live with us, and suddenly it was like my creators couldn't see me anymore. All they could see was him. He was fourteen vorns when he arrived, and I was ten, and I thought it was going to be great, you know. Like having an older brother. But it didn't work out like that…"

I can't stop talking. I just can't stop. Every time the shuttle bumps or jolts, another torrent of words come rushing out of my mouth. Like energon.

"…he was a swimming champion, and an everything champion, and I was just…nothing in comparison…"

"…photography course and I honestly thought it was going to change my life…"

"…eight stone three. But I was planning to start eating healthier…"

"I applied for every single job on Cybertron. I was so desperate, I even applied to…"

"…awful mech called Cliffjumper. This new desk arrived the other day, and he just took it, even though I've got this really grotty little desk…"

"…sometimes I water his stupid organic spider plant with energon, just to serve him right…"

"…sweet mech named Bluestreak, who works in Personnel. We have this secret code where he come in and says, 'Can I go through some numbers with you, Hot Rod?' and we go and get some energon and have a gossip…"

"…energon at work is the most disgusting stuff you've ever drunk, absolute poison. So we usually nip out to StarBrights…"

"…put 'Math's GCSE grade A' on my CV, when I really only got a C. I know I shouldn't have done it, but I _so_ wanted to get the job…"

What's happened to me? Normally there's a kind of filter that stops me from blurting out everything I'm thinking, but the filter's stopped working. Everything's piling out in a big, random stream, and I can't stop it.

"Sometimes I think I believe in Primus, because how else did we all get here? But then I think, Yes, but what about war…"

"…wear under armor plating because they don't give you VPL. But they're _so_ uncomfortable…"

"…size four, and I didn't know what to do, so I just said, 'Wow, those are absolutely fantastic…'"

"…roasted energon treats, my complete favorite energon…"

"…joined a book group, but I just couldn't get through _Amazing Exceptions._ So I just skimmed the back of the pad and pretended I'd read it…"

"…I gave him all his cyberfish energon treats. I honestly don't know what happened…"

"…just have to _hear_ that Merchant's song 'Close to You' and I start crying…"

"…perfect date would start off with highgrade just _appearing_ at the table, as if by magic…"

I'm unaware of anything around us. The planet has narrowed to me and this stranger, and my mouth, spewing out all my innermost thoughts and secrets.

"…name was Blaster. My creators were downstairs, and I remember thinking, If this is what the world gets so excited about, then the world's mad…"

"…lie on my side, because that way you look more sexier…"

"…works in Market Research. I remember thinking the very first time I saw him, Wow, he's good-looking. He's very tall and yellow, because he's half-Iacon, and he has these amazing blue eyes. So he asked me out…"

"…always have a glass of sweet coolant highgrade before a date, to calm my nerves…"

"He's wonderful. Prowl's completely wonderful. He's sweet, and he's good, and he's successful, and everyone calls us the perfect couple…"

"…I'd never tell anyone this in a million vorns. But sometimes I think he's almost _too_ good-looking. Like a bot out of my wildest dreams. Mr. Perfect."

And now I'm on the subject of Prowl, I'm saying things I've never said to anyone. Things I never even realized were in my head.

"…gave him this lovely chrono for Primus Day, but he wears this cheap red chrono thing, because it can tell him the temperature in Metroplex or something stupid…"

"…took me to all these jazz concerts and I pretended to enjoy them to be polite, so now he thinks I love jazz…"

"…every single Flamewawr film off by heart and says each line before it comes, and it drives me crazy…"

"…determined to find my sensory nodes, so we spend the whole weekend doing it in different positions, and by the end I was just exhausted. All I wanted was energon treats and a sappy romance novel…"

"…he kept saying, what was it like, what was it like? So I just made some stuff up, I said it was absolutely amazing, and it felt as though my whole body were opening up like an organic flower, and he said what sort of flower, so I said a begonia…"

"…can't expect the initial passion to last. But how do you tell if the passion's faded in a good, long-term-commitment way or in a crap, we-don't-fancy-each-other-anymore way…"

"…hero in shining armor is not a realistic option. But there's a part of me that wants a huge, amazing romance. I want passion. I want to be swept off my feet. I want a cybertron-quake, or a…I don't know a huge whirlwind…something _exciting_. Sometimes I feel as if there's this whole new, thrilling life waiting for me out there, and if I can just—"

"Excuse me, sir?"

"What?" I look up dazedly. "What is it?" The air hostess with the Iacon looking helm is smiling down at me.

"We've landed."


	4. Chapter 4

Here's the newley revised Chapter 4

Sparkling - Newborn

Youngling - Child

Breem - 8.3 Earth minutes

Joor - About 6.5 Earth hours

Orn - About 13 Earth day

Stellar Cycle – About 73 Earth months

Vorn - About 83 Earth years

Enjoy!

* * *

Can you keep a secret?

Chapter 4

"We've _landed_?"

How can we have landed? I look around—and glimpse the shuttle port terminal through the window. The shuttle's still. We're on the ground.

I feel nauseous. A second ago I was swirling around in the air, and now all is flat and quiet and normal again.

"We aren't bumping anymore," I say stupidly.

"We stopped bumping quite a while ago," says the Crystal City mech.

"We're…we're not going to die."

"We're not going to die," he agrees.

I look at him as though for the first time—and suddenly it hits me. I've been blabbering nonstop this whole time to a complete stranger. Primus alone knows what I've been saying.

I want to get off this shuttle right now. "I'm sorry," I say awkwardly. "You should have stopped me."

"That would have been a little difficult." There's a tiny smile on his lips. "You were on a bit of a roll."

"I'm so embarrassed!" I try to smile, but I can't even look this mech in the eyes. I mean, I told him about my_ sensory nodes_. My whole face plate is hot with mortification.

"Don't worry about it. We were all stressed-out. That was some flight." He hesitates. "Will you be ok getting back home?"

"Yes!" My voice is shrill. "I'll be fine, thanks!" I scrabble hurriedly under the seat for my briefcase. I have to get out of here. Now.

"You're sure you're ok?

"Fine! Thanks very much." I undo my seat belt and get to my feet, stumbling a little. "I hope you have a nice visit."

"Thanks." He smiles up at me, and I nod back, then walk away as quickly as I can.

As I step onto the solid ground of the terminal, the relief hits me again. I'm alive. I'm safe. Slowly, trying to keep control of myself, I make my way along the carpeted corridors toward Arrivals. I feel sweaty and my processor is starting to throb.

The shuttle port seems so bright and calm after the intense atmosphere of the shuttle. The ground seems so firm. I sit quietly on a plastic chair for a while, trying to get myself together, but as I stand up at last, I still feel dazed. I walk through Customs in a blur, hardly able to believe I'm here.

"Hot Rod!" I hear someone calling as I come out of Arrivals, but I don't look up. There are probably loads of Hot Rod's in this world.

"Hot Rod! Over here!"

I raise my head in disbelief. Is that…No. It's can't be, it can't—It's Prowl.

He looks heartbreakingly handsome. His armor has that nice shiny glow, and his eyes are bluer than ever, and he's running toward me. This makes no sense. What's he doing here? As we reach each other, he grabs me and pulls me tight to his chest.

"Thank Primus," he says huskily. "Thank Primus. Are you ok?"

"Prowl, what—what are you doing here?"

"I thought I'd surprise you. When I got here, they told me the shuttle had hit turbulence." He closes his eyes briefly. "Hot Rod, I watched your shuttle land. They sent a medic straight out to it. Then you didn't appear. I thought…" He swallows hard. "I don't know exactly what I thought."

"I'm fine. I was just trying to get myself together. Oh Primus, Prowl it was terrifying." My voice is suddenly all shaky, which is ridiculous, because I'm perfectly safe now. "At one point I honestly thought I was going to die."

"When you didn't come through the barrier…" Prowl breaks off and looks at me silently for a few seconds. "I think I realized for the first time quite how deeply I feel about you."

"Really?" I falter.

"Hot Rod, I think we should…"

Get bonded? My heart jumps in fear. Oh, my Primus. He's going to ask me to bond with him, right here in the shuttle port. What am I going to say? I'm not ready to get bonded. But if I say no, he'll stalk off in a huff. Frag. OK. What I'll say is, Wow, Prowl, I need a little time to…

"…move in together," he finishes.

Well, of course. Obviously he wasn't going to ask me to _bond_ with him.

"What do you think?" He strokes my helm gently.

"Erm…" I rub my face, playing for time, unable to think straight. Move in with Prowl. It kind of makes sense.

All at once, some of the things I said on the shuttle slides into my processor. Something about my never having been properly in love. Something about Prowl's not understanding me properly.

But then…that was just drivel, wasn't it? I mean, I thought I was about to die. I wasn't exactly at my most lucid.

"Prowl, what about your big meeting?" I say, suddenly recalling.

"I canceled it."

"You canceled it?" I stare at him. "For me?"

I feel wobbly now. My legs are barely holding me up. I don't know if it's the aftermath of the shuttle journey, or love.

Oh, Primus, just look at him. He's tall and he's handsome, and he canceled a big meeting, and now he wants to rescue me.

It's love. It has to be love.

"I'd love to move in with you, Prowl," I whisper, and, to my utter astonishment, burst into tears.

I wake up the next morning with sunlight warming my eyelids and the delicious smell of energon in the air.

"Morning!" comes Prowl's voice from far above

"Morning," I mumble without opening my eyes.

"D'you want some energon?"

"Yes, please."

I turn over and bury my throbbing helm into the berth, trying to sink into recharge again for a couple of breems, which normally I would find very easy. But today something's niggling at me. What have I forgotten?

As I half listen to Prowl clattering around in the kitchen, and the tiny background sound of the news, my processor gropes blearily around for clues. It's morning. I'm in Prowl's berth. We went out for dinner—oh, Primus, that awful awful shuttle ride…He came to the shuttle port, and he said…

We're moving in together!

I sit up just as Prowl comes in with two cups of energon. His armor is glowing with a new shiny wax, and his red crest is dappled in the morning sunlight. He looks completely gorgeous—and I'm not being biased here. Prowl could easily be in a catalog. Or a film. He'd be one of those characters called Good-Looking Mech. I feel a prickle of pride and reach over to give him a kiss.

"Hi," he says, laughing. "Careful." He hands me my energon. "How are you feeling?"

"All right." I rub my hand on the back of my helm sheepishly. "A bit groggy."

"I'm not surprised." Prowl raises his eyebrows. "Quite a orn yesterday."

"Absolutely." I nod and take a sip of energon. "So. We're…going to live together!"

"If you're still on for it?"

"Of course! Of course I am!" I smile brightly.

I feel as though I've turned into a grown-up overnight. I'm moving in with my boyfriend! Finally my life is going the way it should!

"I'll have to give Jazz notice…" Prowl gestures toward the wall, on the other side of which is his flatmate's room.

"And I'll have to tell Bumblebee and Sunstreaker."

"And we'll have to find the right place. And you'll have to promise to keep it tidy." He gives me a teasing grin.

"I like that!" I feign outrage. "You're the one with fifty million pads!"

"That's different!"

"How is it different, may I ask?" I plant my hand on my hip, and Prowl laughs. There's a pause, as though we've both run out of steam, and we both take a sip of energon.

"So, anyway," says Prowl after a while, "I should get going." Prowl is attending a course on computers this weekend. "I'm sorry I'll miss your creators," he adds.

And he really is. I mean, as if he weren't already the perfect boyfriend, he actually _enjoys_ visiting my creators.

"That's ok," I say benevolently. "It doesn't matter."

"Oh, and I forgot to tell you!" Prowl reaches into his subspace and pulls out a data pad. "Guess what I've got tickets for."

"Ooh!" I say excitedly, "Um…" I'm about to say "The Towers!"

"The jazz festival!" Prowl beams. "The Dennisson Quartet! It's their last concert of the year. Remember we heard them at Slingshots?"

For a moment I can't quite speak.

"Wow!" I manage at last. "The…Dennisson Quartet! I do remember!"

They played the pipes. On and on and on, for about two joors, without even breathing through their intakes—

"I knew you'd be thrilled!" Prowl touches my arm affectionately.

"Oh, I am!"

The thing is, I probably will get to like jazz on day. In fact, I'm positive I will.

"You wore my present," he says, glancing down at my armor, obviously pleased.

"I…wear it all the time!" I say, crossing my fingers behind my back. "It's so beautiful."

"Have a lovely day with your family." Prowl comes over to the berth to kiss me, and then hesitates. "Hot Rod?"

"Yes?"

He sits down on the bed and gazes seriously at me with his bright blue eyes. "There's something I wanted to say." He bites his lips. "You know we always speak frankly to each other about our relationship."

"Er, yes," I say, feeling a little apprehensive.

"This is just an idea. You may not like it. I mean…it's completely up to you…"

I have never seen Prowl look so squirmy. Oh, my Primus. Is he going to start getting kinky? Does he want me to dress up in outfits and stuff?

I wouldn't mind being a medic, actually. Or a maid! That would be cool. I could get some shiny new armor colors…

"I was thinking that…perhaps…we could…" He stops awkwardly.

"Yes?" I put a supportive hand on his arm.

"We could…" He stops again.

"Yes?"

There's another silence. I almost can't breathe for anticipation.

"We could start calling each other 'sweetspark,'" he says in an embarrassed rush.

"What?" I say stupidly.

"It's just that…" Prowl's whole face is suffused in a bright red. "We're going to be living together. It's quite a commitment. And I noticed recently, we never seem to use any…terms of endearment."

I stare at him, feeling caught out. "Don't we?"

"No."

"Oh." I take a sip of energon. Now that I think about it, he's right. We don't. Why don't we?

"So how do you feel about it? Only if you wanted to—"

"Absolutely! I mean, you're right! Of course we should." I clear my intakes. "Sweetspark!"

"Thanks, sweetspark," he says lovingly, and I smile back, trying to ignore the tiny protests in my processor.

This doesn't feel right. I don't feel like a sweetspark. Sweetspark is a bonded bot with tons of credits and expensive upgrades.

"Hot Rod?" Prowl looks perturbed. "Is something wrong?"

"I'm not sure!" I give a self-conscious laugh. "I just don't know if I feel like a 'sweetspark'! But…you know. It may grow on me."

"Really? Well, we can use something else. What about 'darling'?"

_Darling?_ Is he serious?

"No," I say quickly. "I think 'sweetspark' is better."

"Or 'dear'… 'honey'… 'angel'…"

"Maybe. Look, can we just leave it?"

Prowl's face falls, and immediately I feel bad. Come on. I can call my boyfriend "sweetspark." This is what growing up's all about.

"Prowl, I'm sorry," I say. "I don't know what's wrong with me. Maybe I'm still a bit tense after the flight." I take his hand. "Sweetspar."

"That's all right, sweetspark." He gives me a kiss, his sunny expression restored. "See you later."

You see. Easy

Oh, Primus.

It takes me about half a joor to get from Prowl's place in Maida Vale to Islington, which is where I live, and as I open the door, I find Bumblebee on the couch. He's surrounded by pads and has a frown of concentration on his face.

He works so hard, Bumblebee. When he's preparing a case, he spends days at home, reading technical documents wandering around and scrawling notes to himself. And one thing I've learned is _never_ throw anything away when he's in this phase. Ever since the awful time I chucked out an old pad that had a bit of scribble on it—and it turned out the scribble was his entire opening speech.

"What are you working on?" I say sympathetically. "Is it that fraud case?"

Most of Bumblebee's cases are to do with fraud and offshore companies and stuff. It's pretty dry, to be honest. He says he enjoys it—but even he looks a bit jaded sometimes. Which I think is a bit sad, because when we were in the academy, he preferred the creative side of things. I think he'd loved to go into the arts.

His creators would never have let him be an artist, though. He once told his dad he's like to be a painter—and he gave him this whole tirade about how he wouldn't make any credits and he'd starve, and he wouldn't bail him out, if that's what he thought. Poor old Bumblebee was really freaked out. I mean, he was only seven vorns.

"Er, no, it's not a case. It's this article," says Bumblebee. He lifts up a glossy magazine pad, looking a bit sheepish. "It says since the days of Primus, the proportions of beauty have been the same, and there's a way to work out how beautiful you are, scientifically. You do all these measurements…"

"Oh, right!" I say with interest. "So what are you?"

"I'm just working it out." She frowns at the page again. "That makes fifty-three…subtract twenty…makes…Oh, my Primus!" He stares at the page in dismay. "I only got thrity-three!"

"Out of what?"

"A hundred! Thirty-three out of a hundred!"

"Oh, Bumblebee! That's fragged up!"

"I know," says Bumblebee seriously. "I'm ugly, I knew it. You know all my life I've kind of secretly _known_, but—"

"No!" I say, trying not to laugh. "I meant the magazine's fragged up! You can't measure beauty with some stupid index! Just _look_ at you!" Bumblebee is short and slim, has the biggest baby blue eyes in the world, has gorgeous bright, yellow armor, and is frankly stunning, even if his last waxing was a bit severe. "I mean, who are you going to believe? The mirror or a stupid, mindless magazine article?"

"A stupid mindless magazine article," says Bumblebee as though it's perfectly obvious.

I know he's half joking. But ever since his boyfriend Skydive dumped him, two stellar cycles ago, Bumblebee's had really low self-esteem. In fact, I've been quite worried about him.

What's so weird, when he's in the courtroom, Bumblebee has more confidence than anyone I know. In fact, his nickname is the Demolisher. The last time I watched him in court, some fraudster was trying to spin a story about how he didn't know what he was doing, it was all the fault of his computer terminal…and Bumblebee completely annihilated him. Then one of the opposing barristers got some technical point wrong—and he annihilated him, too.

But then last week he went on a blind date, and the mech made an excuse and left after half an orn—and he came home totally convinced it was because of his thighs. Apparently he glanced at them as he left.

"Is that the golden proportion of beauty?" says our other roommate, Sunstreaker, gracefully walking into the room. His armor is a newly waxed bright sunny yellow, and as usual he looks perfectly waxed and groomed. In theory, Sunstreaker has a job, working in a Bond Street gallery. But all he ever seems to do is get waxed and massaged and go on dates with rich tower mechs, whose credits he always checks out before he says yes.

I do get on with Sunstreaker. Kind of. It's just that he tends to begin all his sentences with "_If_ you want to get bonded," and "_If_ you want to look sexy," and "_If _you want to get fragged," and "_If_ you want to be known as a seriously good dinner party host."

I mean, I wouldn't _mind_ being known as a seriously good dinner party host. You know. It's just not exactly highest on my list of priorities right now.

Plus, Sunstreaker's idea of being a seriously good dinner party host is inviting lots of rich friends over, decorating the whole apartment with twiggy things, getting caterers to make lots of yummy energon treats and telling everyone he made it himself, then sending his roommates (me and Bumblebee) out to the drive-in for the night and looking affronted when they dare creep back in at midnight and make themselves a warm energon drink.

"I did that quiz," he says now, picking up an expensive looking wax. His dad bought it for him as a present when he broke up with a mech after three dates. Like he was sparkbroken.

Mind you, he had a lot of credits, so he probably _was_ sparkbroken.

"What did you get?" says Bumblebee.

"Eighty-nine." He smiles at himself in the mirror. "So, Hot Rod, is it true you're moving in with Prowl?"

"How did you know that?" I say in shock.

"Word on the street. Jazz commed Springer this morning about a concert, and he told him."

"Are you moving in with Prowl?" says Bumblebee incredulously. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I was about to. Isn't it great?"

"Bad move, Hot Rod." Sunstreaker shakes his head. "Very bad tactics."

"Tactics?" says Bumblebee, rolling his eyes. "_Tactics?_ Sunstreaker, they're having a relationship, not playing chess!"

"A relationship _is_ a game of chess!" retorts Sunstreaker, brushing imaginary dust off his plating. "Mummy says you always have to look ahead. You have to plan strategically. If you make the wrong move, you've had it."

"That's stupid!" says Bumblebee. "A relationship is about like processors! It's about soul mates finding each other."

"Soul mates!" says Sunstreaker dismissively, and looks at me. "Just remember, Hot Rod, _if_ you want to get bonded, don't move in with Prowl."

His eyes give a swift, Pavlovian glance to the photograph on the mantelpiece of him meeting Prince Superion at a charity event.

"Still holding out for royalty?" says Bumblebee. "How much younger is he than you again, Sunstreaker?"

"Don't be stupid!" he snaps, color tingeing his cheeks. "You're so immature sometimes, Bumblebee."

"Anyway, I don't _want_ to get bonded," I return.

Sunstreaker raises his eyebrows as though to say, "You poor, ignorant fool," and stands up.

"Oh," he adds, her eyes narrowing. "Has either of you borrowed my Starlight Wax?"

There's a tiny beat of silence.

"No," I say innocently.

"I don't even know which one it is," says Bumblebee, flipping through a pad. I can't look at Bumblebee. I'm sure I saw him wearing it the other night.

Sunstreakers blue eyes are running over us like radar scanners. "Because I had that specially made," he says warningly, "and I really don't want it to go to waste. And don't think I won't notice, because I will. See ya."

The breem he's gone, Bumblebee and I look at each other.

"Frag," says Bumblebee. "I think I left it at work. Oh, well, I'll pick it up when the cycles over." He shrugs and goes back to reading the magazine pad.

Ok. So the truth is, we do both occasionally borrow Sunstreakers waxes and paints. Without asking. But in our defense, he has so many, he hardly ever notices. Plus, according to Bumblebee, it's a basic cybertronian right that roommates should be able to borrow one another's waxes and paints. He says it's practically part of the unwritten Praxus constitution.

"And anyway," adds Bumblebee, "he owes it to me for writing him that letter to the council about all his tickets. You know, he never even said thank you!" He looks up from an article on Elita One. "So, what are you doing later on? D'you want to see a film?"

"I can't," I say reluctantly. "I've got my moms' creation day lunch."

"Oh, yes, of course." Bumblebee is the only bot in the world who has any idea how I feel about visiting home. He pulls a sympathetic face. "Good luck. I hope it's ok."

* * *

Thank you all. I hope to be finished with the revisions soon


	5. Chapter 5

Here is the revised Chapter 5

Sparkling - Newborn

Youngling - Child

Breem - 8.3 Earth minutes

Joor - About 6.5 Earth hours

Orn - about 13 Earth days

Cycle – About 3 Earth weeks

Stellar Cycle – About 73 Earth months

Vorn - About 83 Earth years

Enjoy!

* * *

Can you keep a secret?

Chapter 5

But as I sit on the shuttle train down, I resolve that this time will be better. I was watching a show the other day, all about reuniting long-lost creations with their creators, and it was so moving I had tears running down my face. At the end, they gave this little homily about how our families are far too easy to take for granted and that they gave us life and we should cherish it. And I felt really chastened.

So these are my resolution for today:

_I will not: _  
Let my family stress me out.  
Feel jealous of Tracks, or let Blades wind me up.  
Look at my internal clock, wondering how soon I can leave.  
_I will: _  
Stay serene and loving and remember that we are all sacred links in the eternal  
circle of life. (I got that from the show too.)

Mom and Dad used to live in Coopersville, which is where I grew up. But now, since Dad's retirement, they've moved farther out of Praxus to Crystal St. Pipes, which is a village in Cobblestone. Dad used to work for a textile company, and he took early retirement when he didn't get on the board.

He made lots of jokes about it at his retirement party, and everyone kind of winced. Especially the mech who _did_ get on. I almost think Dad was hoping they'd suddenly offer it to him. But they didn't. So he and Mom decided to "get out of the turbo rat race"—even though Coopersville isn't exactly inner city—and bought a big golden house with a half-acre crystal garden, which Dad calls "land."

I arrive at the house just after twelve, to find Mom in the kitchen with my cousin Tracks. Him and his bonded, Blades, have moved out, too, to a village about five breems' drive from Crystal St. Pipes, so they see each other all the time.

I feel a familiar pang as I see them, standing side by side in the kitchen. They look more like mother and son then aunt and nephew. It's not that their faces are similar. Tracks is all pointy nose and jutting chin, whereas Mom has the same dimples as me. But they've become similar in other ways. They've both got the same midnight blue helm—although Tracks is highlighted more strongly than Mom's. They're both wearing brightly colored armor that shows a lot of skimpiness and probably came from the same shop. And they're both laughing. On the counter, I notice a bottle of white high-grade already half gone.

"Happy Creation Day!" I say, hugging Mom with a thrill of anticipation. I have got Mom the _best_ creation day present. I can't wait to give it to her!

"Hi_ya_!" says Tracks, turning around in a graceful spin. His blue eyes are shining brightly probably from all the high-grade. "Great to see you, Hot Rod. We don't see enough of you. Do we, Auntie Moonracer?"

"We certainly don't," says Mom, giving me a hug.

"Shall I get you a drink?" says Tracks as I put the bottle of high-grade I've brought into the fridge.

This is how Tracks always talks to me. As though I'm a visitor.

But never mind. I'm not going to stress about it. Sacred links in the eternal circle of life. "It's ok!" I say, trying to sound pleasant. "I'll get it." I open the cabinet where cubes are always kept, to find myself looking at tins of metal.

"They're over here now," says Tracks, on the other side of the kitchen. "We moved everything around! It makes more sense now."

"Oh, right. Thanks." I take the cube he gives me and sip my high-grade. "Well done on your award, by the way."

"You've got quite an array now!" pipes up Mom. "Haven't you, Tracks love?"

"Five." Tracks smirks. "Seven, including the regional ones."

"That's fantastic!" I force a smile. "Really great. So…can I do anything to help?"

"I don't _think_ so…" says Tracks, looking critically around the kitchen. "Everything's pretty much done. So I said to Cosmos," he adds to Mom, "'Where did you get those shades of paint?' And he said M & S! I couldn't believe it?"

"Who's Cosmos?" I say, trying to join in.

"At the turbo club," says Tracks.

Mom never even knew what turboing was let alone play it. But when Tracks always talked about 'turboing' this and 'racing' that, she just had to try it. So when he moved to Cobblestone, she and Tracks took it up together. And now all I hear about is racing matches, turbo club dinners, and endless parties with chums from the turbo club.

I did once go along, to see what it was all about. But first of all, they have all these stupid rules about what kind of armor you can wear, which I didn't know, and some old mech nearly had a spark attack because I wasn't in the proper attire. (Mom said she thought Tracks had told me what to wear. But he hadn't.) So they had to find me some armor, and then when we got to the course, I couldn't win one race. Not that I couldn't race _well_: I literally could not ever win, even against a two-wheeled bot. So in the end they all exchanged pitying glances and said I'd better wait in the club-house.

"Sorry, Hot Rod. Can I just get past you?" Tracks reaches over my shoulder for a couple of serving cubes.

"Sorry," I say, and move aside. "So, is there really nothing I can do, Mom?"

"You could feed Sammy," she says, giving me a pot of turbo fish food. She frowns anxiously. "You know, I'm a bit worried about Sammy."

"Oh!" I say, feeling a spasm of alarm. "Er, why?"

"He just doesn't seem _himself_." She peers at him in the bowl. "What do you think? Does he look right to you?"

"Er…" I follow her gaze and pull a thoughtful face as though I'm studying Sammy's features.

Oh, Primus. I never thought she would notice. I tried as hard as I could to get a turbo fish that looked just like Sammy. I mean, he's metal, he's orange, he's got two fins, he swims around…what's the difference?

"He's probably just a bit depressed," I say at last. "He'll get over it."

Please don't let her take him to the medic or anything, I silently pray. I didn't even check if I got the right gender. Do turbo fishes even _have_ genders?

"Anything else I can do?" I start sprinkling fish food lavishly into the bowl in an attempt to block her view of him.

"We've pretty much got it covered," replies Tracks, kindly.

"Why don't you go and say hello to Dad?" A cloud of steam rises as Mom serves some hot energon. "Lunch won't be for another ten minutes or so."

* * *

I find Dad and Blades in the sitting room, in front of the TV. Dad's face is gradually showing age but is neatly groomed as ever, and he's drinking high-grade from a silver tankard. The room has recently been redecorated with stripes down the wall, but on the wall there's a display of Tracks' swimming cups. Mom polishes them all regularly, every cycle.

Plus my two riding rosettes. I think she kind of dust those, too.

"Hi, Dad." I say, giving him a kiss.

"Hot Rod!" He puts a hand to his head in mock surprise. "You made it! No detours! No visits to historic cities!"

"Not today!" I gave a little laugh. "Safe and sound."

There was one time, just after Mom and Dad had moved to this house when I took the wrong turn on the way down and ended up in Trimara, and Dad always teases me about it.

"Hi, Blades." I peck him on the cheek, trying not to choke on the amount of afterwax he's wearing. He's in a tight white roll-neck armor that shows off his thick, muscular chest and glares off his reddened armor. Blades runs his family company which supplies energon coolers all around the country, and he met Tracks at some convention for young entrepreneurs. Apparently they struck up conversation admiring each other's Poleax armor.

"Hi, Hot Rod," he says. "D'you see the new motor?"

"What?" I suddenly observe a glossy new model where the old Blades used to be. "Oh, yes! Very smart."

"Mercedes Five Series. Forty-two grand credits list price."

"Wow."

"Didn't pay that, though." He taps the side of his nose. "Have a guess."

"Erm, forty?"

"Guess again."

"Thirty-nine?"

"Got him down to thirty-seven-two-forty," says Blades triumphantly. "And free CD changer. Tax deductible," he adds.

"Right. Wow."

I don't really know what else to say, so I perch on the side of the sofa and eat an energon knutt.

"That's what you're aiming for, Hot Rod!" says Dad. "Executive level! Think you'll ever make it?"

"I…don't know! Er, Dad, that reminds me. I've got a check for you." I awkwardly reach into my subspace and get out a check for three hundred credits.

"Well done," says Dad. "That can go on the tally." His blue eyes twinkle as he puts it in his sub space. "It's called learning the value of credits. It's called learning to stand on your own two feet!"

"Valuable lesson," says Blades, nodding. He takes a slug of high-grade and grins at Dad. "Just remind me Hot Rod—what career is it this cycle?"

When I first met Blades, it was just after I'd left the estate agency to become a photographer. Two and a half vorns ago. And he makes the same joke every time I see him. Every single, bloody—

Ok, calm down. Happy thoughts. Cherish you family. Cherish Blades.

"It's still marketing!" I say brightly. "Has been for almost a vorn now!"

"Ah, marketing. Good, good!"

There's a silence for a few breems, apart from the news commentary. Suddenly Dad and Blades simultaneously groan as something or other happens on the news. A moment later they groan again.

"Right," I say. "Well, I'll just…" As I get up from the sofa, they don't even turn their helms.

* * *

I go out to the hall and pick up a small carton I brought down with me. Then I go through the side gate, knock on the annex door, and push it cautiously.

"Grandpa Kup?"

Grandpa is Mom's dad, and he's lived with us ever since he had his spark operation, ten vorns ago. At the old house in Coopersville, he just had a bedroom, but this house is bigger, so he has his own annex of two rooms and a tiny little kitchen, tacked onto the side of the house. He's sitting in his favorite armchair, with the radio playing classical music and his eyes tight shut. On the floor in front of him are about six boxes crammed with stuff. I glimpse sheaves of pads dotted with age, an old wireless, an old-fashioned technical clock, a slide projector, and a map dating back from the Golden Age.

"Hi, Grandpa!" I say.

"Hot Rod!" As he opens his eyes, his face lights up. "Darling mech! Come here!" I bend over to give him a kiss, and he squeezes my hand tight. His armor is dry and cool, and his helm is even paler than it was last time I saw him.

"I've got some more Praxus Bars for you," I say, nodding to my box. Grandpa is completely addicted to Praxus energy bars, and so are all his friends at the bowling club, so I use my discount allowance to buy him a boxful every time I come home. (Apparently Praxus employees used to get all the products for free. But then some mechs in Design were found to be selling Praxus Cola Energon cheap over the Net, so they clamped down.)

"Thank you, my love!" Grandpa Kup beams. "You're a good mech, Hot Rod."

"Where should I put them?"

We both look helplessly around the cluttered room.

"What about over there, by the fireplace?" says Grandpa at last. I pick my way across the room, dump the box on the floor, then retrace my steps, picking between a bundle of newspads tied together, a pile of postcard pads and letters, and a heap of stuff that looks like total rubbish.

"Pineknots and papaya oil?" Grandpa's reading the label on the box. He looks up in dismay. "What happened to knots and black currant?"

"They're pushing the tropical flavors," I explain, sitting down on one of the packing cases. "There's a whole ad campaign about it. 'Transport Yourself.' These mechs are playing metalball, and they take a bit of Praxus Bar, and suddenly they're on this exotic beach…"

I trail off as Grandpa shakes his helm.

"Papaya oil! Would you put papaya oil on you energon?" He looks so disgusted I want to laugh.

"Er, well, but these are knutt health bars—"

"Exactly. Knut. Energon!"

"I'll get you some knot and black currant ones. I promise—"

"Knots and knutts, yes. Pineknots and knutts…" Grandpa pauses. "Barf."

I nearly choke in surprise. "_Barf?_"

"It's the new slang," says Grandpa. "I read it in the newspad. It means 'to be sick.' I'm surprised you haven't heard of it Hot Rod."

"Well, I have. But—"

"And another thing," adds Grandpa before I can continue. "I read a very worrying newspad article the other day, about safety in Praxus." He gives me a beady look. "You don't travel on public transport in the evenings, do you?"

"Erm, hardly ever," I say crossing my fingers behind my back. "Just now and then, when I absolutely have to…"

"Darling mech, you mustn't!" says Grandpa, looking agitated. "Younglings in hoods with flick-blades roam the Underground, it said. Overcharged louts breaking bottles, gouging one another's optics out…"

"It's not _that_ bad—"

"Hot Rod, it's not worth the risk! For the sake of a bus fare or two!"

I'm pretty sure that if I asked Grandpa what he thought the average bus fare was in Praxus, he'd say five half-credits.

"Honestly, Grandpa, I'm really careful." I adopt a reassuring tone. "And I do take buses."

Sometimes. About once a vorn.

"Anyway. What's all this stuff?" I ask to change the subject, and Grandpa gives a gusty sigh.

"Your mother cleared out the attic last week. I'm just sorting out what to throw away and what to keep."

"That seems like a good idea." I look at the pile of trash on the floor. "Is this the stuff you're throwing out?"

"No! I'm keeping all that!" He puts a protective hand over it.

"So, where's the stuff to throw?"

There's silence. Grandpa avoids my gaze.

"Grandpa! You have to throw _some_ of it away!" I exclaim, trying not to laugh. "You don't need all these old newspads! And what's this?" I reach past the old newspads and fish out an old rusted metal yo-yo. "This is trash, surely."

"Overdrive's yo-yo!" Grandpa reaches for the yo-yo, his eyes softening. "Good old Overdrive."

"Who was Overdrive?" I've never heard of an Overdrive before. "Was he a good friend of yours?"

"We met at the fairground. Spent the afternoon together. I was nine vorns old." Grandpa is turning the yo-yo over and over in his fingers.

"Did you become friends?"

"Never saw him again." He shakes his helm. "I've never forgotten it." The trouble with Grandpa is, he never forgets anything.

"Well…what about some of these cards?" I pull out a bundle of old Primus Day pads.

"I'll never throw away cards." Grandpa gives me a long look. "When you get to my age; when the people you've known and loved all your life start to pass away…you want to hang on to any memento. However small."

"I can understand that," I say more quietly. Maybe this is all souvenirs of Granny. She died when I was seven vorns, and Grandpa still visits her grave every two cycles.

I reach for the nearest pad and online it, and my expression changes. "Grandpa! This is from Eject's Electrical Maintenance, 40 vorns ago!"

"Eject was a very good mech," starts Grandpa.

"Grandpa," I try to sound firm. "You can't possibly need to keep this. Nor do you need one from…" I online the pad. "Southwestern Gas Supplies. And you don't need twenty old copies of _Punch_." I deposit them on the pile. "And what are these?" I reach into the box again and pull out a little box of photos. "Are these actually of anything you really want to—"

I stop. I'm looking at a photograph of me and Dad and Mom sitting on a bench in a park. Mom's wearing her old bright purple armor, and Dad's wearing that stupid bucket on his head that was given to him as a gift, and I'm on his knee, aged about nine vorns, eating an iced energon cone. We all look so happy together.

Wordlessly, I turn to another photo. I've got Dad's bucket on, and we're all laughing helplessly at something. Just us three.

Just us. Before Tracks came into our lives.

I still remember the day he arrived as though it were yesterday. I remember red suitcases in the hall and a new voice in the kitchen and an unfamiliar smell in the air. I walked in and there he was, a stranger, all the way from Kaon, drinking a cup of energon. He was wearing an academy crest on his chest but he still looked like a grown-up to me. He already had a curvy waist, and looked quite a bit taller than me. And at suppertime, Mom and Dad let him have a glass of high-grade. Mom kept telling me I had to be very kind to him, because his mother had died and his father, Mom's brother, was too busy traveling to look after him. He was going to live with us for the moment, and then maybe his daddy would get a new job and move back to Praxus. But in the meantime we all had to be very kind to Tracks. That was why he got my room.

I leaf through the rest of the pictures, trying to swallow the lump in my throat. There's the park we used to go to, with swings and slides. I loved that place so much. But it was too boring for Tracks, and I desperately wanted to be like him, so I said it was boring, too, and we never went again.

"Knock, knock!"

I look up with a start, and Tracks' standing at the door, holder his glass of high-grade.

"Lunch is ready!"

"Thanks," I say. "We're just coming."

"Now, Gramps!" Tracks wags his finger reprovingly at Grandpa and gestures at the packing cases. "Haven't you got anywhere with this yet?"

"It's difficult," I hear myself saying defensively. "There are loads of memories in here. You can't just throw them out."

"If you say so." Tracks rolls his eyes. "If it were me, the whole lot'd go in the trash."

* * *

I cannot cherish him. I cannot do it. I want to throw my energon treat at him. We've been sitting around the table now for forty breems, and the only voice we've heard is Tracks.

"It's all about the image," he's saying now. "It's all about the right armor, the right look, the right walk. When I walk along the street, the message I give the world is 'I am a successful mech.'"

"Show us!" says Mom admiringly.

"Well." Tracks gives a false-modest smile. "Like this." He pushes his chair back and wipes his mouth with his napkin.

"You should watch this, Hot Rod!" says Mom. "Pick up a few tips!"

As we all watch, Tracks starts striding around the room. His chin is raised, his chest is sticking out, his eyes are fixed on the middle distance, and his aft is jerking from side to side.

He looks like a cross between a turbo chicken and a retarded drone.

"When Tracks goes into a conference hall, I tell you, helms turn," says Blades proudly, and takes a sip of high-grade. "Bots stop what they're doing and stare at him!"

I bet they do.

Oh, Primus. I want to laugh. I mustn't. I mustn't.

"Do you want to have a go, Hot Rod?" says Tracks. "Copy me?"

"Er, I don't think so," I say. "I think I probably…picked up the basics."

I can't control the snort of laughter that erupts, so I turn it into a cough.

"Tracks is trying to help you, Hot Rod!" says Mom. "You should be grateful!" She beams at Tracks, who simpers back. "You are good to Hot Rod, Tracks."

I just take a swing of high-grade.

Yeah, right. Tracks really wants to help me.

That's why when I was completely desperate for a job after the photography disaster and asked him for work experience at his office furniture company, he said no. I wrote him this really long, careful letter, saying I realized it put him in an awkward situation, but I'd really appreciate any chance, even a couple of orns of running errands, to gain experience.

And he sent back a standard rejection letter saying he'd "keep my details on file."

I was so totally mortified, I never told anyone. Especially not Mom and Dad.

"You should listen to some of Track's business tips, Hot Rod," Dad is sharply saying. "Maybe if you paid more attention, you'd do better in life."

"It's only a walk!" quips Blades with a chortle. "It's not a miracle cure!"

"Blades!" Mom frowns in half reproof.

"Hot Rod knows I'm joking, don't you, Hot Rod?" says Blades easily, and fills up his glass with more high-grade.

"Of course!" I force a merry smile.

Just wait till I get promoted. Just wait. Just wait.

A sudden image of the crusted energon drink spraying over Ultra Magnus pops into my processor, and I feel a twinge of unease. Not one of my best moments. And when I got home yesterday night, I found a message from Sentinel Prime on my home comm. unit, asking how the meeting went and saying we'd speak tomorrow.

But I have to think positive. He wouldn't not promote me just because of one mistake, would he? I mean, if it was anyone's fault, it was the design department's! They should make better cubes. Or the drink should be less fizzy…

"Hot Rod! Cybertron to Hot Rod!" Tracks is waving a comical hand in front of my face. "Wake up, dopey! We're doing presents!"

"Oh, right." I come to. "Ok. I'll just go and get mine."

As mom opens a camera from Dad and some new wax from Grandpa, I start to feel excited. I _so_ hope Mom likes my present.

"It doesn't look much," I say as I hand her the pink pad. "But you'll see when you open it…"

"What can it be?" Mom says, looking intrigued. She hurriedly onlines the flowered pink pad, and her whole face lights up. "Oh, Hot Rod!"

"What is it?" says Dad.

"It's an orn at a spa!" exclaims Mom. "A whole orn of pampering!"

"What a good idea!" says Grandpa, and pats my hand. "You always have good ideas for presents, Hot Rod!"

"Thank you, love! How thoughtful!" Mom leans over to kiss me, and I feel a surge of pleasure. I had the idea a few stellar cycles ago. It's a really nice ornlong package, with free treatments and everything.

"You get high-grade lunch," I say eagerly. "And you can keep the waxes!"

"Wonderful!" says Mom. "I'll look forward to it! Hot Rod, that's a lovely present!"

"Oh, dear!" says Tracks with a little laugh. He looks at the large creamy pad in his own hands. "My present's slightly upstaged, I'm afraid. Never mind. I'll change it."

I look up, alert. There's something about Tracks' voice. I know something's up. I just know it.

"What do you mean?" says Mom.

"It doesn't matter," says Tracks. "I'll just…find something else. Not to worry." He starts to put the pad away in his subspace.

"Tracks, love!" says Mom. "Stop that! Don't be silly! What is it?"

"Well," says Tracks. "It's just that Hot Rod and I seem to have had the same idea." He hands Mom the pad with another little laugh. "Can you believe it?"

My whole body stiffens.

There's complete silence as Mom onlines the pad.

"Oh, my goodness!" she says, showing us a gold-embossed brochure on the pad. "What's this? Le Spa Meridien?" Something else falls into her hands, and she lifts it. "Tickets to _Crystal City?_ Tracks!"

He's ruined my present.

"For both of you," adds Tracks a little smugly. "Uncle Powerglide, too."

"Tracks!" says Dad in delight. "You marvel!"

"It _is_ supposed to be rather good," says Tracks with a complacent smile. "Five-star accommodation… The chef has three Michelin stars."

"I don't believe this!" says Mom. She's leafing excitedly through the brochure. "Look at the swimming pool! Look at the gardens!"

My flowered pad is lying, forgotten, amid the cups of high-grade.

Suddenly I feel close to leaking coolant from my optics. He knew. He _knew_.

"Tracks, you knew," I suddenly blurt out, unable to stop myself. "I told you I was giving Mom a spa treat. I _told_ you! We had this conversation about it, orns ago. In the garden!"

"Did we?" says Tracks casually. "I don't remember."

"You do! Of course you remember!"

"Hot Rod!" says Mom sharply. "It was a simple mistake. Wasn't it, Tracks?"

"Of course it was!" says Tracks, opening his eyes in wide innocence. "Hot Rod, if I've spoiled things for you, I can only apologize—"

"There's no need to apologize, Tracks love!" says Mom. "These things happen. And they're _both_ lovely presents. _Both_ of them." She looks at my pad again. "Now, you two mechs are best friends! I don't like to see you quarreling! Especially on my creation day!"

Mom smiles at me, and I try to smile back. But inside, I feel about ten vorns old again. Tracks always manages to wrong-foot me. He always has, ever since he arrived. Whatever he did, everyone took his side. He was the one whose mother had died. We all had to be nice to him. I could never, ever win.

Trying to pull myself together, I reach for my high-grade glass and take a huge swig. Then I find myself surreptitiously glancing at my internal clock. I can leave at four if I make an excuse about shuttle trains running late. That's only another joor and a half to get through. And maybe we'll watch TV or something…

"A credit for your thoughts, Hot Rod," says Grandpa, patting my hand, and I look up guiltily.

"Er, nothing," I say. "I wasn't really thinking about…anything."


	6. Chapter 6

Here's the revised Chapter 6

Sparkling - Newborn

Youngling - Child

Breem - 8.3 Earth minutes

Joor - About 6.5 Earth hours

Orn - about 13 Earth days

Cycle – About 3 Earth weeks

Stellar Cycle – About 73 Earth months

Vorn - About 83 Earth years

Enjoy!

* * *

Can you keep a secret?

Chapter 6

Anyway. It doesn't matter, because I'm going to get a promotion. Then Blades will stop making cracks about my career, and I'll be able to pay back Dad. Everyone will be really impressed.

I still have to explain to Sentinel Prime why the Gygax meeting went wrong. I'm not looking forward to that. But even so, I can't help feeling optimistic as I wake up in the morning. It's my vornly appraisal today. And if you ignore that one teeny incident—if you look at the bigger picture—I've been doing really well recently. I _know_ I have.

The thing about Sentinel Prime is he doesn't heap you with praise. But I bet he's noticed all the extra jobs I've been doing. He's probably been writing it all down in a little pad or something. He'll bring it out and scan through it and say "You know, effort doesn't go uncredited in this company, Hot Rod"

As I get ready, I can feel a growing fizz of anticipation. I even wonder whether to put on that Pristine Armor again—just to _show_ Sentinel what a great executive I'd make. But no. He might think I'm being pretentious. I'll just wear my usual armor to work. And my usual paints from Crystal Connection.

Well…not exactly Crystal Connection. To be honest, I bought it at Oxfam. But the _label_ says Crystal Connection. And while I'm still paying off Dad, I don't have much choice about where I shop. I mean, new paints from Crystal Connection costs about 500 credits, whereas this only costs 70 credits. And they're practically new!

As I skip up the tube steps at Blackfriars, the air is fresh and the sky is clear. Office workers are hurrying along the street, holding cups of energon, clutching bags and cases, jostling one another at the traffic lights. A mech strides past and almost squashes my foot, but I'm too distracted to react. I'm imagining if I do get promoted. Mom will say, "How was your cycle?" and I'll say, "Well, actually—"

No, what I'll do is wait until I go home and then just nonchalantly hand over my new business pad—

"Hot Rod!"

I look around to see Bluestreak, my friend from Personnel, climbing the tube steps behind me, panting slightly. He's holding his forearm armor in his left hand and his bright blue eyes are looking frantic and even wider than usual, giving him an air of surprise.

I heard a group of femmes talking about Bluestreak at work once. Their theory was that he always looks surprised because he thinks it makes him look cuter. But the truth is quite a lot of the time Bluestreak _is_ surprised by life. It's like he's unprepared. Like he was never given the instruction manual.

"What on cybertron happened?" I say as he reaches the top of the steps.

"My stupid armor!" he exclaims. "I only had it mended the other orn, and it just popped right off again!" He flaps it at me. "I paid sixty credits! Primus, this orn is such a disaster. I forgot to pick up a newspad, and I had a _terrible_ cycle!"

"I thought you were spending it with Skywarp!" I say in surprise. "What happened?"

Skywarp is Bluestreak's latest mech. They've been seeing each other for a few cycles, and this cycle he was supposed to be visiting his country home, which he's been remodeling at the end of cycles.

"It was awful! As soon as we arrived, he said he was going to go race."

"Oh, right." I try to find a positive angle. "Well…at least he's comfortable with you. He can just act normal."

"Maybe." He looks doubtful. "So then he said, how did I feel about helping out a bit while he was gone? So I said of course—and then he gave me this paintbrush and three pots of paint and said I should get the sitting room done if I worked fast."

"_What?"_

"And then he came back later…and said my brushwork was careless!" His voice rises in woe. "It wasn't careless! I only smudged one bit, and that's because the stupid ladder wasn't long enough."

I stare at him in disbelief. "Bluestreak, you're not telling me you actually painted the room."

"Well…yes. You know, to help out. But now I'm starting to think…Is he just using me?"

I'm almost speechless.

"Bluestreak, of course he's using you!" I manage at last. "He wants a free painter-decorator! You have to dump him! Immediately! Now!"

Bluestreak is silent for a few breems, and I eye him with apprehension. His face is still, but I can tell lots of things are going on beneath the surface.

"Oh, Primus, you're right!" he suddenly bursts out. "You're right! He's been using me! It's my own fault. I should have realized when he asked me if I had any experience in plumbing or roofing—"

"When did he ask you that?" I say incredulously.

"On our first date! I thought he was just, you know, making conversation…."

"Bluestreak, it's not your fault." I squeeze his arm. "You didn't know!"

"But what is it about me?" Bluestreak stops still in the street. "Why do I only attract complete fraggers?"

"You don't!"

"I do! Look at the mechs I've been out with." He starts counting off on his fingers. "Ramjet borrowed all my credits off me then disappeared to Iacon, Thrust dumped me as soon as I found him a job, Dirge was two-timing me….Do you see a pattern emerging?"

"I, um, possibly…"

"I just think I should give up." His face falls. "I'm never going to find anyone nice."

"No!" I say at once. "Don't give up! Bluestreak, I just know your life is going to turn around. You're going to find some lovely, kind, wonderful mech—"

"But where?"

"I…don't know!" I cross my fingers behind my back. "But I know it'll happen. I've got a really strong feeling about it."

"Really?" he blinks. "You do?"

"Absolutely!" I think for a moment. "Look, here's an idea. Why don't you try…going to have lunch at a different place today. Somewhere completely different. And maybe you'll meet someone there!"

"You think?" he gazes at me. "Ok. I'll try it."

We start walking along the pavement again. "The _only_ good think about this cycle," he adds as we reach the corner, "is I finished making my new painting! What do you think?"

He proudly stops, twirls around and reaches into his subspace. He pulls it out and thrusts in into my face. I stare at it for a few breems, not quite sure what to say.

It's not that I don't _like_ his paintings—

Ok. It is that I don't like his paintings.

Especially one with blotches of what looks like a bot purged all over it mixed in with many different colors.

"Its…amazing!" I manage at last. "Absolutely fantastic!"

"Isn't it great?" He gives me a pleased smile. "And it was so quick to do! I'm going to make the matching sculpture next!"

"That's great!" I say faintly. "You're so clever."

"Oh, it's nothing! I just enjoy it."

He smiles modestly and puts the painting back in his subspace. "So anyway, how about you?" he adds as we start to cross the road. "Did you have a nice cycle? I bet you did. I bet Prowl was completely wonderful and romantic. I bet he took you out for dinner or something."

"Actually, he asked me to move in with him," I say, feeling a bit awkward.

"Really?" Bluestreak gazes at me wistfully. "Primus, Hot Rod, you two make the perfect couple. You give me faith that it can happen. It all seems so easy for you."

I can't help feeling a little flicker of pleasure inside. Me and Prowl. The perfect couple. Role models for other people.

"It's not _that_ easy!" I try to sound modest. "I mean, we argue, like anyone else!"

"Do you?" Bluestreak looks surprised. "I've never seen you argue."

"Of course we do!"

I rack my processor for a moment, trying to remember the last time Prowl and I had a fight. I mean, obviously we do _have_ arguments. Loads of them. All couples do. It's only healthy.

Come on, this is silly. We must have—

Yes! There was that time when we were watching the news when I thought this one bot was a femme and Prowl though it was a mech. Exactly.

* * *

The Praxus building is a big steel and glass office block on Farringalloy Road. As we walk up the pale stone steps, each with a granite turbopanther (our mascot) jumping across it, my tank starts jumping a little with nerves. What shall I say to Sentinel about the meeting at Glen Energon?

Well, obviously I'll be completely blunt and honest. Without actually telling him the truth—

"Hey, look!" Bluestreak's voice interrupts me, and I follow his gaze. Through the glass front of the building. I can see a commotion in the foyer. This isn't normal. What's going on?

Primus, has there been a fire or something?

As Bluestreak and I push our way through the heavy revolving glass doors, we look at each other, baffled. The whole place is in turmoil. Bots are scurrying about, someone's polishing the brass banister, someone else is polishing the fake plants, and Red Alert, the senior office manager, is shooing bots into lifts.

"Could you please go to your offices! We don't want you hanging around the reception area. You should all be at your desks by now." Red Alert sounds completely stressed-out. "There's nothing to see down here! Please go to you desks!"

"What's happening?" I say to Ironhide the security guard, who's lounging against the wall with a cup of energon as usual. He takes a sip, swills it around in his mouth, and gives us a grin. "Optimus Prime's visiting."

"_What?"_ We both gawk at him.

"Today?"

"Are you _serious_?"

In the world of Praxus Corporation, this is like saying Primus is visiting. Optimus Prime is the joint founder of Praxus Corporation. He _invented_ Praxus Energon. I know this because I've typed out blurbs about him approximately a million times. "_It was1000 vorns ago when young, dynamic business partners Optimus Prime and Alpha Trion bought up the ailing Zoot energon drinks company, repackaged Zootacola as Praxus Cola, invented the slogan 'Don't Pause,' and thus made marketing history."_

No wonder Red Alert's in a tizzy.

"In about five breems." Ironhide consults using his internal clock. "Give or take."

"But…but how come?" says Bluestreak. "I mean, just out of the blue like this…No pun intended…"

Ironhide's eyes twinkle. He's obviously been telling bots the news all morning and is thoroughly enjoying himself. "He wants to have a look around the Praxus operation, apparently."

"I thought he wasn't interested in the business anymore!" says Wheeljack from Designing, who's come up behind us and is listening, agog. "I thought even since Alpha Trion died, he was all grief-stricken and reclusive. He was going to take a career break, wasn't he? On his ranch or whatever it is."

"That was a vorn ago," points out Bluestreak. "Maybe he's feeling better."

"Maybe he wants to sell us off, more like," says Wheeljack darkly.

"My theory," says Ironhide, and we bend our helms to listen, "is he wants to see if the plants are shiny enough." He nods his head toward Red Alert, and we all giggle.

"Be careful," Red Alert is snapping. "Don't damage the stems." He glances up. "What are you all still doing there?"

"Just going!" says Bluestreak, and we head toward the stairs, which I always use because it means I don't have to bother with the lines. Plus, luckily Marketing is on the first floor. We've just reached the landing when Wheeljack squeaks. "Look! Oh, my Primus! It's him!"

A big limousine has purred up in the street, right in front of the glass doors. Primus forbid the poor mech drive here. Like clockwork, a lift at the other end of the foyer suddenly opens, and out strides Zeta, the chief executive, plus the managing director and about six others, all looking immaculate in dark armor.

"That's enough!" Red Alert is hissing at the poor cleaners in the foyer. "Go! Leave it!"

The three of us stand, goggling like younglings, as the passenger door of the limousine opens. A moment later, out gets a mech with a sleek helm in navy blue armor. His bright blue optics are sharp and he's holding a titanium briefcase. His armor is so perfect; it looks like each little piece has been carefully waxed for hours.

He looks like a million credits.

Zeta and the others are all outside by now, lined up on the steps. They all shake his hand in turn, then usher him insider, where Red Alert is waiting. The blue mech scans the foyer, then flicks dust off his armor.

"Welcome to the Praxus Corporation in Praxus," Red Alert says fulsomely. "I hope your journey was pleasant?"

"Not too bad, thanks," says the mech, in a Towers accent.

"As you can see, this is very much a _normal_ working day…."

"Hey, look," murmurs Bluestreak. "Perceptor's stuck outside the doors."

Perceptor, one of the designers, is hovering uncertainly on the steps outside, not knowing whether to come in or not. He puts a hand to the door, then retreats a little, then comes up to the door again and peers uncertainly inside.

"Come in, Perceptor!" says Red Alert, opening the door with a rather savage smile. "One of our designers, Perceptor. You should have been here ten breems ago, Perceptor! Still, never mind!" He pushes a bewildered Perceptor toward the lifts, then glances up and shoos us away in irritation.

"Come on," says Bluestreak, "we'd better go." And, trying not to giggle, the three of us hurry up the stairs.

* * *

The atmosphere in the marketing department is a bit like my bedroom used to be before we had parties in the sixth level of academy. Bots are touching up their paint, checking their armor, shuffling pads around, and gossiping excitedly. As I walk past the office of Hound, who is in charge of media strategy, I see him carefully lining up his _Marketing Cycle_ awards on his desk, while Gears, his assistant, is polishing all the framed photographs of him shaking hands with famous bots.

I'm just about to sit down in my chair when the head of our department, Sentinel, pulls me aside.

"What the frag happened at Glen Energon? I had a very strange comm. from Ultra Magnus this morning. You poured energon over him?"

I don't believe it. Ultra Magnus _told_ Sentinel? But he promised he wouldn't! "It wasn't like that," I say quickly. "I was just trying to demonstrate the many fine qualities of Praxus Prime and I … I kind of spilled it."

Sentinel raises his eyebrows, and not in a friendly way. "All right. Well, I've smoothed it over with them. I guess it was a lot to ask of you."

My spark plummets. Please don't say one stupid cube of energon has ruined my chances. "It wasn't!" I say quickly. "What I mean is, if you give me another opportunity to prove myself, I'll do better. I promise."

"We'll see." He looks at his internal clock. "You'd better get on. Your desk is a fragging mess."

"Ok. Um, what time will my appraisal be?"

"Hot Rod, in case you hadn't heard, Optimus Prime's visiting us today," says Sentinel in his most sarcastic voice. "But of course, if you think you appraisal's more important than the guy who _founded_ the company—"

"No! I didn't mean…I just…"

"Go and tidy your desk," says Sentinel in a bored voice. "And if you spill fragging Praxus Prime over Optimus, you're fired."

As I scurry to my desk, Red Alert comes into the room looking hassled. His round face is a little sweaty, and panting for air.

"Attention!" he says, clapping his hands. "Attention, everyone! This is an informal visit, nothing more. Mr. Prime will come in, perhaps talk to one or two of you, observe what you do…So I want you all just to act normal, but obviously, at your highest standards…What are these pads?" he suddenly snaps, looking at a neat pile of proofs in the corner next to Skyfire's desk.

"That's the, um, artwork for the new Praxus Energon Gum campaign," says Skyfire, who is very shy and creative. "I haven't quite got room on my desk…"

"Well, they can't stay here!" Red Alert picks them up and shoves them at him. "Get rid of them! Now, if he asks any of you a question, just be pleasant and natural. When he arrives, I want you all to work. Just doing typical tasks that you would naturally be doing in the course of the day." He looks around distractedly. "Some of you could be on the comm units; some could be typing at your terminals…a couple of you could be creatively brainstorming…Remember, this department is the very hub of the company. The Praxus Corporation is renowned for its marketing brilliance!"

He stops, and we all stare dumbly at him.

"Get on!" He claps his hands again. "Don't just stand there! You!" He points to me. "Come one! Move!"

Oh, Primus. My desk is completely covered with stuff. I open a drawer and sweep a whole load of pads inside, then, in slight panic, begin to tidy the data pens in the stationery pot. At the next desk, Cliffjumper is redoing some of his paint.

"It'll be really inspirational to meet him," he says, admiring himself in his hand mirror. "You know, a lot of people think he single-handedly changed the face of marketing practice." His eyes fall on me. "Are those new paints, Hot Rod? Where are they from?"

"Er, Crystal Connection," I say after a pause.

"I was in Crystal Connection yesterday." His eyes are narrowing. "I didn't see those paints."

"Well…they'd probably sold out!" I turn away and pretend to be reorganizing my top drawer.

"What do we call him?" Trailbreaker, a product manager, is saying. " or Optimus?"

"Five breems alone with him," Springer, one of the marketing executives, is saying feverishly into his comm. unit. "That's all I need. Five breems to pitch him the Net site idea. I mean, Primus, if he went for it—"

Primus, the air of excitement is infectious! With a spurt of adrenaline, I find myself reaching for my hand mirror in my drawer and checking my paint. I mean, you never know. Maybe he'll somehow spot my potential. Maybe he'll pull me out of the crowd!

"Ok, folks," says Sentinel, striding into the department. "He's on this floor. He's going into Admin. first…"

"On with your everyorn tasks!" exclaims Red Alert. "Now!"

Frag. What's my everyorn task? I turn on my comm. unit and press my voicemail code. I can be listening to my messages. I look around the department—and see everyone else has done the same thing.

We can't _all_ be on the comm unit. This is so stupid! Ok, I'll just switch on my terminal and wait for it to warm up.

As I watch the screen changing color, Cliffjumper starts talking in a loud voice.

"I think the whole essence of the concept is _vitality_," he says, his eyes flicking toward the door. "D'you see what I mean?"

"Er, yes," says Springer. "I mean, in a modern marketing environment, I think we need to be looking at a, um, fusion of strategy and forward-thinking vision."

Primus, my terminal's slow today. Optimus Prime will arrive and I'll still be sitting here like a waxwork.

I know what I'll do. I'll be the person getting energon. I mean, what could be more natural than that?

"I think I'll get some energon!" I say, and get up from my seat.

"Could you get me one?" says Cliffjumper, looking up briefly. "So anyway, on my M.B.A. course…"

The energon machine is near the entrance to the department, in its own little alcove. As I'm waiting for the noxious liquid to fill my cup, I glance up and see Zeta walking out of the admin. department, followed by a couple of others. Frag! He's coming!

Ok. Keep cool. Just wait for the second cup to fill, nice and natural…

And there he is! With his expensive looking blue armor and dark eyes. But to my slight surprise, he steps back, out of the way.

In fact, no one's even looking at him. Everyone's attention is focused on some other mech. A mech wearing red and blue flamed armor, who's walking out now…

As I stare in fascination, he turns.

Oh, my Primus. As I see his face, I feel an almighty thud, as though a metal ball landed hard in my chest.

It's him.

* * *

Thank you all for continuing to follow through with this story.

New revisions will be up shortly,

OptimusPrime's Girlfriend


	7. Chapter 7

Thank you everyone for your reviews, they are greatly appreciated,

Here is the revised Chapter 7.

Sparkling - Newborn

Youngling - Child

Breem - 8.3 Earth minutes

Joor - About 6.5 Earth hours

Orn - about 13 Earth days

Cycle – About 3 Earth weeks

Stellar Cycle – About 73 Earth months

Vorn - About 83 Earth years

Enjoy!

* * *

Can you keep a secret?

Chapter 7

The same dark blue eyes. The same laugh lines. The same red and blue flames. It's definitely him.

It's the mech from the shuttle.

What's _he_ doing here?

And…and why is everyone's attention on him? He's speaking now, and everyone is lapping up every word he says.

He turns again, and I instinctively duck back out of sight, trying to keep calm. What's he doing here? He can't—

That can't be—

That can't possibly be—

With wobbly legs, I walk back to my desk, trying not to drop the energon on the floor.

"Hey," I say to Cliffjumper, my voice pitched slightly too high. "Erm, do you know what Optimus Prime looks like?"

"No," he says, and takes his energon. "Thanks."

"Red and blue armor," says someone.

"Red," I swallow. "And blue?

"He's coming this way!" hisses someone. "He's coming!"

I sink into my chair and sip my energon, wincing automatically at the disgusting taste.

"…our head of Marketing and Promotion, Sentinel Prime," I can hear Zeta saying.

"Good to meet you, Sentinel," comes the same dry Crystal City voice.

It's him. It's definitely him.

Ok, keep calm. Maybe he won't remember me. It was one short flight. He probably takes a lot of flights.

"Everyone." Sentinel is leading him into the center of the office. "I'm delighted to introduce our founding father, the mech who has influenced and inspired a generation of marketeers…Optimus Prime!"

A round of applause breaks out, and Optimus Prime shakes his helm, smiling. "Please," he says. "No fuss. Just do what you would normally do."

He starts to walk around the office, pausing now and then to talk to people. Sentinel is leading the way, making all the introductions, and following them silently everywhere is the navy mech.

"Here he comes!" Cliffjumper suddenly murmurs, and everyone at our end of the office stiffens.

My spark starts to thump, and I shrink into my chair, trying to hide behind my terminal.

Maybe he won't recognize me. Maybe he won't remember. Maybe he won't—

Frag. He's looking at me. I see the flash of surprise in his eyes, and his optics widen.

He recognizes me.

Please don't come over, I silently pray. Please don't come over.

"And who's this?" he says to Sentinel.

"This is Hot Rod, one of our junior marketing assistants."

He's walking toward me. Cliffjumper has stopped talking. Everyone's staring. I'm hot with embarrassment.

"Hello," he says pleasantly.

"Hello," I manage, "Mr. Prime."

Ok, so he recognizes me. But that doesn't necessarily means he remembers anything I said. A few random comments thrown out by a bot in the next-door seat. Who's going to remember that? Maybe he wasn't even _listening_—

"And what do you do?"

"I, um, assist the marketing department, and I help setting up promotional initiatives," I mumble.

"Hot Rod was in Gygax only last cycle on business," puts in Sentinel, giving me a completely phony smile. "We believe in giving our junior staff responsibility as early as possible."

"Very wise," says Optimus Prime, nodding. His gaze runs over my desk and alights with sudden interest on my cup of energon. He looks up and meets my eye. "How's the energon?" he asks pleasantly. "Tasty?"

Like a recording in my helm, I suddenly hear my own stupid voice, prattling on.

_The energon at work is the most disgusting stuff you've ever drunk, absolute poison…_

"It's great!" I say. "Really…delicious!"

"I'm very glad to hear it." There's a spark of amusement in his eyes, and I feel myself redden.

He remembers. Frag. He remembers.

"And this is Cliffjumper," says Sentinel. "One of our brightest young marketing executives."

"Cliffjumper," says Optimus Prime thoughtfully. He takes a few steps toward his workstation. "That's a nice big desk you've got there, Cliffjumper." He smiles at him. "Is that new?"

…_This new desk arrived the other day, and he just took it…_

He remembers everything, doesn't he? Everything.

Oh, Primus. What the frag else did I say?

While Cliffjumper makes some showy-off reply, I'm sitting perfectly still with my pleasant, good-employee expression. But inside, my processor is frantically spooling back, trying to remember, trying to piece together what I said. I mean, I told this mech everything about myself. _Everything._ I told him what sort of armor I wear, and what flavor iced energon I like, and how I lost my virginity, and—

Suddenly my blood runs cold.

I'm remembering something I should not have told him.

Something I should not have told anyone.

…_I know I shouldn't have done it, but I so wanted to get the job…_

I told him about faking the A grade on my CV.

Well, that's it. I'm dead.

He'll fire me. I'll get a record for being dishonest and no one will ever employ me again, and I'll end up on a _Praxus's Worst Jobs_ documentary, cleaning up unprocessed energon, saying brightly, "It's not too bad, really…"

Ok. Don't panic. There must be something I can do. I'll apologize. Yes. I'll say it was an error of judgment that I now deeply regret, and I never meant to mislead the company, and—

No. I'll say, "Actually, I _did_ get an A grade, ha-ha—silly me—I forgot!" And then I'll forge a GCSE certificate with one of those calligraphy kits. I mean, he's from Crystal City. He'll never know—

No. He's bound to find out.

Ok, maybe I'm overreacting here. Let's just get things in proportion. Optimus Prime is a huge, important mech. Look at him! He's got limos and flunkies, and a great big company that makes millions every vorn. He doesn't care if one of his employees got a poxy A grade or not! I mean, honestly!

I laugh out loud in my nerves, and Cliffjumper gives me an odd look.

"I'd just like to say that I'm very glad to meet you all," says Optimus Prime, looking around the silent office. "And also introduce my assistant, Mirage." He gestures to the mech with the navy blue armor. "I'll be staying here for a few days, so I hope I'll get to know a few of you better. As you know, Alpha Trion, who founded the Praxus Corporation with me, was Praxian. For that reason, among many others, this country has always been immensely important to me."

A sympathetic murmur goes around the office. He lifts a hand, nods, and walks away, followed by Mirage and all the executives. There's silence until he's gone, then an excited babble breaks out.

I feel my whole body sag in relief. Thank Primus. Thank _Primus._

Honestly, I'm ridiculous. Fancy thinking even for a moment that Optimus Prime would remember what I said. Let alone care about it! Fancy thinking he would actually take time out of his busy, important schedule for something as insignificant as whether I faked my CV or not! As I scan my terminal and reach for a new document, I'm actually smiling.

"Hot Rod," I look up to see Sentinel standing over my desk. "Optimus Prime would like to see you," he says curtly.

"What?" My smile fades away. "Me?"

"The meeting room in five breems."

"Did he say…why?"

"No."

Sentinel strides off, and I gaze unseeingly at my terminal screen, feeling sick.

I was right the first time. I'm going to lose my job.

I'm going to lose my job because of one stupid comment on one stupid shuttle ride.

_Why_ did I have to get upgraded? _Why_ did I have to open my stupid mouth?

"Why does Optimus Prime want to see you?" says Cliffjumper, sounding put out.

"I don't know," I say

"Is he seeing anyone else?"

"I don't know!" I say distractedly.

To stop him from asking any more questions, I start typing drivel into my terminal, my processor whirring around and around.

I can't lose this job. I can't ruin yet another career.

I mean, obviously, if he'd _told_ me he was my employer, I would never have mentioned my CV. Or…any of it.

And anyway, it's not like I faked a _degree_, is it? It's not like I've got a criminal record or something. I'm a good employee. I try really hard and I don't skive off that often, _and_ I put in all that overtime with the sportswear promotion, _and_ I organized the Primus Day raffle…

I'm typing harder and harder, and my face is growing red with agitation.

"Hot Rod." Sentinel is looking meaningful at the digital clock on the wall.

"Right." I take a deep breath and stand up.

I'm not going to let him fire me. I'm just not going to let it happen.

I stride across the office and down the corridor to the meeting room, knock on the door, and push it open.

Optimus Prime is sitting on a chair at the conference table, scribbling something in a pad. As I come in, he looks up, and there's a grave expression on his face that makes my stomach turn over.

But I have to defend myself. I _have_ to keep this job.

"Hi," he says. "Can you close the door?" He waits until I've done so, then looks up. "Hot Rod, we need to talk about something."

"I'm aware that we do," I say trying to keep my voice steady. "But I'd like to say my part first, if I may."

For a moment, Optimus Prime looks taken aback—then he tilts his head to the side. "Sure. Go ahead."

I walk into the room and look him straight in the optics.

"Mr. Prime, I know what you want to see me about. I know it was wrong. It was an error of judgment that I deeply regret. I'm extremely sorry, and it will never happen again. But in my defense…" I can hear my voice rising in emotion. "In my defense, I had no idea who you were on that shuttle ride. And I don't believe I should be penalized for what was an honest, genuine mistake!"

There's a pause.

"You think I'm penalizing you?" says Optimus Prime at last, with a frown.

"Yes! You must realize I would never have mentioned my CV if I'd known who you were! It was like a… trap! You know, if this were a court, the judge would throw it out! They wouldn't even let you—"

"Your CV?" Optimus Prime's brow suddenly clears. "Ah! The A grade on your resume?" He gives me a penetrating look. "The falsified A grade, I should say."

Hearing it out loud like that silences me. I can feel my face growing hotter and hotter.

"You know, a lot of bots would call that fraud," says Optimus Prime, leaning back in his chair.

"I know they would. I know it was wrong. I shouldn't have…But it doesn't affect the way I do my job? It doesn't _mean_ anything—"

"You think?" He shakes his head thoughtfully. "I don't know. Going from a C grade to an A grade…that's quite a jump. What if we need you to do some math?"

"I can do math," I say desperately. "Ask me a math question. Go on—ask me anything."

"Ok." His mouth is twitching. "Eight nines."

I stare at him, my spark racing, my processor blank. Eight nines. I've got no idea. Frag. Ok, one nine is nine. Two nines are—

No. I've got it. Eight tens are 80. So eight _nines_ must be—

"Seventy-two!" I cry, and flinch as he gives a tiny half smile. "It's seventy-two," I add more calmly.

"Very good." He gestures politely to a chair. "Now. Have you finished what you wanted to say, or is there more?"

"I…" I rub my face confusedly. "You're…not going to fire me?"

"No," says Optimus Prime patiently. "I'm not going to fire you. Now can we talk?"

As I sit down, a horrible suspicion starts growing in my processor. "Was…" I clear my intakes. "Was my CV what you wanted to see me about?"

"No," he says mildly. "That wasn't what I wanted to see you about."

I want to die.

"Right." I smooth the back of my helm, trying to look businesslike. "Right. Well. So, er, what did you…what…."

"I have a small favor to ask of you."

"Right!" I feel a tweak of anticipation. "Anything! I mean…what is it?"

"For various reasons," says Optimus Prime, "I would prefer it that nobody knows I was in Gygax last cycle." He meets my eyes. "So I would like it very much if we could keep the fact that we met that day between ourselves."

"Right!" I say after a pause. "Of course! Absolutely. I can do that."

"You haven't told anyone?"

"No. No one! Not even my…I mean, no one. I haven't told anyone."

"Good. Thank you very much. I appreciate it." He smiles and gets up from his chair. "Nice to meet you again, Hot Rod. I'm sure I'll see you again."

"That's it?"

"That's it. Unless you had anything else you wanted to discuss—"

"No!" I get to my feet hurriedly, banging my ankle on the table leg.

I mean, what did I think? That he was going to ask me to head up his exciting new international project?

Optimus Prime opens the door and holds it politely for me. And I'm halfway out when I stop. "Wait."

"What is it?"

"What shall I say you wanted to talk to me about?" I say awkwardly. "Everyone's going to ask me."

"Why not say we were discussing logistics?" He winks at me and closes the door.

* * *

He was a stranger. He was supposed to be a _stranger_. As I travel home that evening, I'm still reeling with the injustice of it all. The whole point about strangers is, they disappear into the ether and you never see them again. They don't turn up at the office. They don't ask you what eight nines are. They don't turn out to be your mega-boss employer.

Well, all I can say is, that's taught me. My creators always said never talk to strangers, and they were right. I'm never telling a stranger anything again. _Ever._

I've arranged to go to Prowl's apartment this evening, and as I arrive, I feel my body expand in relief. Away from the office. Away from all the endless Optimus Prime talk. And Prowl's already making energon. I mean, how perfect is that? The kitchen if full of a wonderful smell, and there's a glass of high-grade waiting for me on the table.

"Hi!" I say, and give him a kiss.

"Hi, darling!" he says, looking up from the energon machine.

Frag. I totally forgot to say 'darling.' Ok, how am I going to remember this?

I know. I'll write it on my hand.

"Have a look at those! I downloaded them from the Net." Prowl gestures to a couple pads on the table. I open one and find myself looking at a grainy black and white picture of a room with a couch and a potted plant.

"Apartment details!" I say, taken aback. I check the postcode. It's in Maida Vale. In fact, just around the corner from here. I don't remember agreeing on Maida Vale. But then, it doesn't really matter.

"Wow!" I say. "That's quick! I haven't even given notice yet."

"Well, we need to start looking," says Prowl. "Look—that one's got a balcony. And there's one with a working fireplace!"

"Gosh!"

I sit down on a nearby chair and peer at the blurry photography, trying to imagine me and Prowl living in it together. Sitting on the couch. Just the two of us, every single evening.

I wonder what we'll talk about.

Well! We'll talk about…whatever we always talk about.

Maybe we'll play chess. Just if we get bored or anything.

I turn to another pad and feel a sudden pang of excitement.

This apartment has wooden floors and shutters! I've _always_ wanted wooden floors and shutters. And look at that cool kitchen, with all-granite work tops…

Oh, this is going to be so great.

I take a happy slug of high-grade and am just sinking comfortably back as Prowl says, "So! Isn't it exciting about Optimus Prime coming over!"

Oh, Primus. Not _more_ talk about bloody Optimus Prime.

"Did you get to meet him?" he adds, coming over with a bowl of knutts. "I heard he went into Marketing…"

"Um…yes, I met him."

"He came into Research this afternoon, but I was at a meeting." Prowl looks at me, agog. "So, what's he like?"

"He's…I don't know. Red and blue flamed armor…Crystal City mech…So, how did the meeting go?"

Prowl totally ignores my attempt to change the subject.

"Isn't it exciting, though?" His face is glowing. "Optimus Prime!"

"I suppose so." I shrug. "Anyway—"

"Hot Rod! Aren't you excited?" says Prowl in astonishment. "We're talking about the founder of the company! We're talking about the mech who came up with the concept of Praxus Cola! Who took an unknown brand, repackaged it, and sold it to the world! He turned a failing company into a huge, successful corporation. And now we're getting to meet him! Don't you find that thrilling!"

"Yes," I say at last. "It's…thrilling!"

"This could be the opportunity of a lifetime for all of us! To learn from the genius himself! You know, he's never written a book. He's never shared his thoughts with anyone except Alpha Trion…" He reaches into the fridge for a cube of Praxus Cola and cracks it open. I once bought a cube of energon from our leading competitors when we were out on a picnic, and he nearly had a spark attack.

"You know what I would love above anything?" he says, taking a gulp. "A one-to-one with him." His eyes shine. "A one-to-one with Optimus Prime! Wouldn't that be the most fantastic career boost?"

A one-to-one with Optimus Prime.

Yup, that really boosted my career.

"I suppose," I say reluctantly.

"Of course it would be! Just having the chance to listen to him! To hear what he has to say! I mean, the mech's been shut away for a vorn. What ideas must he have been generating all this time? He must have so many insights and theories, not just about marketing but about business…about the way bots work…about life itself—"

Prowl's enthusiastic voice is like acid on armor. So, let's just see quite how spectacularly I have played this wrong, shall we? I'm sitting on a shuttle next to the great Optimus Prime, creative genius and source of all wisdom on business and marketing, not to mention the deepest mysteries of life itself.

And what do I do? Do I ask him insightful questions? Do I engage him in intelligent conversation? Do I learn anything from him at all?

No. I blabber on about fascinating subjects such as how I still haven't found my sensory nodes.

Great career move, Hot Rod. One of the best.

* * *

Sensory nodes is kinda like g-spots for humans ;)

Anyway thanks for being patient will this story,

OptimusPrime's Girlfriend


	8. Chapter 8

Thank you everyone for your reviews, they are greatly appreciated.

Here's the revised Chapter 8

Sparkling - Newborn

Youngling - Child

Breem - 8.3 Earth minutes

Joor - About 6.5 Earth hours

Orn - about 13 Earth days

Cycle – About 3 Earth weeks

Stellar Cycle – About 73 Earth months

Vorn - About 83 Earth years

Enjoy!

* * *

Can you keep a secret?

Chapter 8

The next orn, Prowl is off to a meeting first thing, but before he goes, he digs out an old article about Optimus Prime.

"Read this," he says through a mouthful of energon treats. "It's good background information."

I don't _want_ any background information! I feel like saying, but Prowl's already out the door.

I'm tempted to leave it behind and not even bother looking at it, but it's quite a long journey from Maida Vale to work, and I haven't got any pads with me. So I take the article and grudgingly start reading it on the shuttle train. I suppose it is quite an interesting story. How Optimus Prime and Alpha Trion were friends ever since they met at some small marketing agency, and they decided to go into business, and Optimus was the creative one and Alpha was the extroverted playbot one, and they became multimillionaires together, and they were so close they were practically like brothers. There's some quotes from a business mogul saying how annoying it was having meetings with them because they were so in tune with each other and expected everyone else to follow their thoughts.

And then Alpha crashed and died the next orn. And Optimus was so devastated he shut himself away from the world and said he was giving it all up.

And of course now that I read all this, I'm starting to feel a bit stupid. I should have recognized Optimus Prime. I mean, I certainly recognize Alpha Trion. For one thing, he was gorgeous. And for another, he was all over the news when he died. I can remember it vividly now, even though I had nothing to do with Praxus Corporation then.

I emerge from the underground into a bright morning, and head toward the energon smoothie bar where I usually pop in before work. I've got into the habit of picking up a pink cora energon smoothie every morning, because it's healthy.

And also because there is a very cute Polyhex mech who works behind the counter, called Beachcomber. He has royal blue armor, and the most amazing body. (In fact, I actually had a miniature crush on him before I started going out with Prowl.) When he isn't working in the energon bar, he's doing a course on sports science, and he's always telling me stuff about essential minerals and what you energon ratio should be.

"Hiya," he says as I come in. "How's the kickboxing going?"

"Oh!" I say, coloring slightly. "It's great thanks!"

"Did you try that new maneuver I told you about?"

"Erm, yes! It really helped!"

"I thought it would," he says, looking pleased, and goes off to make my pink cora smoothie.

The truth is I don't really do kickboxing. I did try it once, at our local leisure center, and to be honest, I was shocked! I had no idea it would be so _violent_. But Beachcomber was so enthused about it and kept saying how it would transform my life, I couldn't bring myself to admit I'd given up after only one session. So I kind of…fibbed. I mean, he'll never know. It's not like I ever see him outside the energon bar.

"That's one pink cora energon," says Beachcomber.

"And…a crusted energon treat," I say. "For...my colleague." Beachcomber picks up the treat and pops it in a bag.

"You know, that colleague of yours needs to think about his refined sugar levels," he says with a concerned frown. "He's averaging three treats a week."

"I know," I say earnestly. "I'll…tell him. Thanks, Beachcomber."

"No problem!" says Beachcomber. "And remember: one-two-swivel!"

"One-two-swivel," I repeat. "I'll…remember!"

* * *

As I arrive at the office, everything's quiet apart from a couple of bots murmuring on the comm. unit. It's as though, after the hubbub of yesterday, everyone's a bit exhausted. In fact, as I sit down in my chair, Springer gives an enormous yawn—then sees me watching and scowls.

"Hot Rod." Sentinel appears out of his office and snaps his fingers at me. "Appraisal."

My tanks give an almighty lurch, and I nearly choke on my last bite of crusted treat. Oh, Primus. This is it. I'm not ready.

Yes, I am. Come on. Exude confidence. I am a mech on his way somewhere.

Suddenly I remember Tracks and his I-am-a-successful-mech walk. I know Tracks is an obnoxious fragger, but he does have his own company and make zillions of credits a vorn. He must be doing something right. Maybe I should give it a go. Cautiously I stick out my ass, lift my head, and start striding across the office with a fixed, alert expression on my face.

"Is something wrong, Hot Rod?" says Sentinel as I reach his door.

"Er, no."

"Well, you look very odd. Now. Sit down." He shuts the door, sits down at his desk, and opens a form marked "Staff Appraisal Review." "I'm sorry I couldn't see you yesterday. But what with Optimus Prime's arrival, everything got fragged up."

"That's ok."

I try to smile, but my mouth is suddenly dry. I can't believe how nervous I feel. This is worse than an academy report. I watch Sentinel as he scrolls down the pad. It occurs to me that objectively he's quite good-looking, despite his receding paint lines. He's tall and slim and has an infectious laugh. If you met him at a party, you'd probably enjoy chatting with him.

But I've never met him at a party. I've only ever seen him here. My scary boss.

"Ok. So…Hot Rod." He looks at the pad and starts ticking boxes. "Generally, you're doing fine. You're not generally late…You understand the tasks given to you…You're fairly efficient…You work ok with your colleagues…blah, blah…blah…Any problems?" he says, looking up.

"Er, no."

"Do you feel harassed?"

"Er, no."

"Good." He ticks another box and starts writing in a panel at the bottom of the pad. "Well, I think that's it. Well done. Can you send Springer in to see me?"

What? Has he forgotten? "Um, what about my promotion?" I say, trying not to sound too anxious.

"Promotion?" He pauses in his writing. "What promotion?"

"To marketing executive."

"What the frag are you talking about?"

"It said in the ad for my job…" I pull the old pad out of my subspace, where it's been since yesterday. "'Possible promotion after a vorn." It says it right there." I push it across the desk, and he looks at it with a frown.

"Hot Rod, that was only for exceptional candidates. You're not ready for a promotion. You'll have to prove yourself first." He hands the pad back.

"But…I'm doing everything as well as I can! If you just give me a chance—"

"You have the chance at Glen Energon." Sentinel raises his eyebrows at me, and I feel a twinge of humiliation. "Hot Rod, bottom line is, I don't think you're ready for a higher position. In a vorn we'll see."

A _vorn?_

"Ok? Now, hop to it."

My processor is whirling. I have to accept this in a calm, dignified way. I have to say something like "I respect your decision, Sentinel," shake his hand, and leave the room. This is what I have to do.

The only trouble is I can't seem to get up out of my chair. After a few moments Sentinel looks at me, puzzled. "That's it, Hot Rod."

I can't move. Once I leave this room, it's over.

"Hot Rod?"

"I've done everything I can!" The words spill out before I can stop them. "I've been writing copy for leaflets, I've been making contacts, I sorted out that whole mess with the skating promotion…Plus, I've been doing all the typing and stuff…I mean, it's more like two jobs I've been doing!"

"I see." Sentinel looks grave. "Well, if you're finding it too much—"

"No! It's not that…" I crumple the pad in frustration. "I just want to be doing more interesting things! I've had loads of idea…Like, it was me who came up with the idea of giving away Praxus Gum with health club towels. Remember?"

Sentinel puts down the pad and sighs. "Hot Rod, I'm not saying you haven't done well—"

"Please promote me! It's the only thing I want in the whole world, and I'll work so hard—I promise. I'll come in at the end of the cycle, and I'll…I'll wear Pristine Armor…"

"_What?_" Sentinel is staring at me as though I've turned into a cyber fish.

Ok, I have to calm down here. Take a deep breath. Nice and steady. "I feel I deserve a promotion."

There are my cards. Right on the table.

"And I feel you're not up to it," replies Sentinel without hesitation.

The trouble is I've never been any good at cards. "Right." I bite my lip. "So, when—"

"Hot Rod, moving up to marketing executive is a big step. If you want to get ahead, you have to create your own chances. You have to carve out your own opportunities. Now, seriously. Can you please get the frag off out of my office and get Springer for me?

As I leave, I can see him raising his eyes to Primus and scribbling something else on my pad.

* * *

I walk dejected, back to my desk, and Cliffjumper looks up with a beady expression.

"Oh, Hot Rod," he says, "your cousin Tracks just called for you."

"Really?" I say in surprise. Tracks never comm.'s me at work. In fact he never comm.'s me at all. "Did he leave a message?"

"Yes, he did. He wanted to know, have you heard about your promotion yet?"

This is now official. I hate Tracks. "Right," I say, trying to sound as though this is some boring, everyorn inquiry. "Thanks."

"Are you being promoted, Hot Rod? I didn't know that!" His voice is high and piercing, and I see several people raise their helms in interest. "So, are you going to become a marketing executive?"

"No," I mutter, my face hot with humiliation. "I'm not."

"Oh!" Cliffjumper pulls a puzzled face. "So, why did he—"

"Shut up, Cliffjumper," says Trailbreaker. I give him a grateful look and slump into my chair.

Another whole vorn. Another whole vorn of being the crappy marketing assistant, and everyone thinking I'm useless. Another vorn of being in debt to Dad, and Tracks and Blades laughing at me, and feeling like a complete failure. I switch on my terminal and summon up the copy for a new Praxus Lite brochure. But suddenly all my energy's gone.

"I think I'll get some energon," I say. "Does anyone want one?"

"You can't get energon," says Cliffjumper, giving me an odd look. "Haven't you seen?"

"What?"

"They've taken the energon machine away," says Springer. "While you were in with Sentinel."

"Taken it away? But…why?"

"Dunno," he says, walking off toward Sentinel's office. "They just came and carted it away."

"We're getting a new machine!" says Trailbreaker, walking past with a bundle of proofs. "That's what they were saying downstairs. A really nice one, with proper energon. Ordered by Optimus Prime, apparently."

Optimus Prime ordered a new energon machine?

"Hot Rod!" Cliffjumper is snapping. "Did you hear that? I want you to find the leaflet we did for the Tesco promotion two years ago. Sorry, Mommy?" he says into the comm. "Just telling my assistant something."

_His_ assistant. Primus, it pisses me off when he says that.

But to be honest, I'm feeling a bit too dazed to get annoyed.

It's nothing to do with me, I tell myself firmly as I root around the bottom of the filing cabinet. He was probably planning to order a new energon machine anyway. He was probably—

I stand up with a pile of pads in my arms and nearly drop them all on the floor.

There he is.

Standing right in front of me, wearing his red and blue flamed armor.

"Hello again." His dark optics crinkle in a smile. "How are you doing?"

"Er…good, thanks." I swallow hard. "I just heard about the energon machine. Um, thanks."

"No problem."

"Now, everyone!" Sentinel comes striding up behind him. "Mr. Prime is going to be sitting in on the department this morning."

"Please." Optimus Prime smiles. "Call me Optimus."

"Right you are. _Optimus_ is going to be sitting in this morning. He's going to observe what you do, find out how we operate as a team. Just behave normally; don't do anything special…" Sentinel's optics alight on me and he gives me an ingratiating smile. "Hi there, Hot Rod! How are you doing? Everything ok?"

"Er, yes, thanks, Sentinel," I mutter. "Everything's great."

"Good! A happy staff, that's what we like. And while I've got your attention"—he coughs, a little self-conscious—"let me just remind you that our corporate family day is coming up in a cycle. A chance for all of us to let our guards down, enjoy meeting each other's families, and have some fun!"

A couple of bots exchange looks. Until this moment, Sentinel has always referred to this as the corporate fragtard day and said he'd rather have his spike torn off than bring any member of his family to it.

"Anyway, back to work, everyone! Optimus, let me get you a chair."

"Just ignore me," says Optimus Prime as he sits down. "Behave normally."

* * *

Behave normally. Right. Of course.

So that would be sit down, put my feet up on the desk, check my messages, put some hand oil on, eat a few energon treats, read my horoscope on the terminal, read Prowl's horoscope, send a message to Prowl, wait a few breems to see if he replies, take a swig of energon, and then finally get around to finding the Tesco leaflet for Cliffjumper.

I don't think so.

As I sit back down at my desk, my processor is working quickly. Create your own chances. Carve out your own opportunities. That's what Sentinel said.

And what is this if not an opportunity?

Optimus Prime himself is sitting here, watching me work. The great Optimus Prime. Boss of the entire corporation. Surely I can impress him _somehow?_

Ok, perhaps I haven't gotten off to the most brilliant start with him.

But maybe this is my chance to redeem myself! If I can just somehow show that I'm really bright and motivated…

As I sit, leafing through the file of promotional literature, I'm aware that I'm holding my helm slightly higher than usual, as though I'm in a posture class. And as I glance around the office, everyone else seems to be in a posture class, too. Before Optimus Prime arrived, Cliffjumper was on the comm. to his mom, but now he's sitting up ramrod straight and is typing briskly, occasionally pausing to smile at what he's written in a what-an-intelligent-bot-I-am way. Springer was reading the sports section, but now he stands up and comes over to Skyfire's desk.

"Did you have any more thoughts on the artwork for the Praxus Gum promotion?" he says, in a loud, too casual voice.

"Er, yeah," says Skyfire, looking bewildered.

"So this is the giveaway." Springer picks up a small, multicolored plastic toy. "Yeah. Well, you know, maybe we can _use_ this in some way. Take the concept…turn it inside out, and play with it. Have some fun."

Oh, Primus. He's totally showing off. This is so embarrassing.

"You've got it upside down," comes Optimus Prime's dry voice. Everyone stiffens, and Springer turns around, clearly joyful at having attracted Optimus Prime's attention.

"Absolutely! I see what you mean." He nods a few times. "So, what, like, the concept needs to be turned upside down? _Reversed_, if you like—"

"Not the concept," says Optimus. "The toy."

Springer looks blankly at the toy in his fingers.

"It sits the other way up. You pull the rip cord and it spins." Optimus gives Springer an appraising look. "You knew that, right?"

A faint color creeps up Springer's face, clashing with his pale green armor. "Er, sure," he says. "Of course I did! So, anyway. We'll…we'll experiment more, ok?"

There's an excruciating silence as he puts the toy back on Skyfire's desk and stiffly walks back to his own.

I want to laugh. But I'm too petrified. What if Optimus Prime picks on me next?

"Hot Rod?" says Cliffjumper in a falsely sweet voice. "Have you found that leaflet I was asking you for? Not that there's _any_ hurry—"

"Er, yes, I have!" I say. I push back my chair, stand up, and walk over to his desk. I'm trying to look as natural as possible. But Primus, this is like being on TV or something. My legs aren't working properly and my smile is pasted onto my face and I have a horrible conviction I might suddenly shout "Petrorabbits!" or something stupid like that.

"Here you are, Cliffjumper!" I say, and carefully lay the leaflet on his desk.

"Bless you!" says Cliffjumper. His optics meet mine, and I realize he's completely acting, too. He puts his hand on mine and gives me a twinkly smile. "I don't know what we'd do without you, Hot Rod!"

"That's quite all right!" I say, matching his tone. "Anytime!"

Frag, I think as I walk back to my desk. I should have said something cleverer, I should have said something like 'Team-work is what keeps this operation together.'

Ok, never mind. I can still be impressive.

Trying to act as normal as possible, I open a document and start to type as quickly and efficiently as I can, my back ramrod straight. I've never know the office this quiet. Everyone's tapping away; no one's chatting. It's like being in an exam. My foot's itching, but I don't dare scratch it.

How on cybertron do people do those cyberfly-on-the-wall documentaries? I feel completely exhausted, and it's only been about five breems.

"It's very quiet in here," says Optimus Prime after a while. "Is it normally this quiet?"

"Er…" We all look around uncertainly at one another.

"Please, don't mind me. Talk away like you normally would. You must have office discussions." He gets up from his seat, spreads his arms, and begins to walk around. "When I worked in an office, we talked about everything. Politics, books…For instance, what have you all been reading recently?"

"Actually, I've been reading the new biography of Vector," says Cliffjumper at once. "Fascinating stuff."

"I'm in the middle of a history about the Golden Age," says Springer.

"I'm just re-reading Proust," says Trailbreaker with a modest shrug. "In the original French."

"Ah." Optimus Prime nods, his face unreadable. "And…Hot Rod, is it? What are you reading?"

"Um, actually…" I swallow, playing for time.

I cannot say _Horoscopes for Lovers_. Even though it is actually very good. Quick. What's a serious book?

"You were reading _Amazing Exceptions_, weren't you, Hot Rod?" says Cliffjumper. "For your book club."

"Yes!" I say in relief. "Yes, that's right—"

And then I stop abruptly as I meet Optimus Prime's gaze.

Frag.

Inside my helm, my own voice from the shuttle is babbling away innocently.

_...just skimmed the back of the pad and pretended I'd read it…_

"_Amazing Exceptions,"_ says Optimus Prime thoughtfully. "What did you think of it, Hot Rod?"

I don't _believe _he asked me that.

For a few breems I can't speak.

"Well!" I clear my intakes at alast. "I thought it…it was really…extremely…"

"It's a wonderful book," says Cliffjumper earnestly. "Once you fully understand the symbolism…"

Shut _up_, you stupid show-off. Oh, Primus. What am I going to say?

"I thought it really…resonated," I say.

"What resonated?" says Springer puzzled.

"The, um…" I clear my intakes. "The resonances."

"The resonances…resonated?" says Cliffjumper.

"Yes," I say defiantly. "They did. Anyway, I've got to get on with my work." I turn away with a roll of my eyes and start typing feverishly.

Ok. So the book discussion didn't go that well. But that was just sheer bad luck. Think positive. I can still do this. I can still impress him—

"I just don't know what's wrong with it!" Cliffjumper is saying in a femmily voice. "I water it every day…"

He pokes his organic spider plant. "Do you know anything about plants, Optimus?"

"I don't, I'm afraid," says Optimus, and looks over at me, his face deadpan. "What do you think could be wrong with it, Hot Rod?"

_...sometimes, when I'm pissed off with Cliffjumper…_

"I…I have no idea," I say at last, and carry on typing, my face flaming.

Never mind. It doesn't matter. So I watered one little plant with energon. It's still alive, isn't it?

"Has anyone seen my Cyberton Cup mug?" says Sentinel, walking into the office with a frown. "I can't seem to find it anywhere."

…_I broke my boss's mug last cycle and hid the pieces in my subspace…_

Frag.

Never mind. So I broke one tiny mug, too. Just keep typing—

"Hey, Optimus," says Springer in a matey, mechs-together voice. "just in case you don't think we have any fun, look up there!" He nods toward the photocopied picture of someone's housing cover that has been up on the notice board since Primus Day. "We still don't know who it is…"

…_I had a few too many drinks at the last Primus Day party…_

Now I want to die. Someone, please kill me—

"Hi, Hot Rod!" comes Bluestreak's voice, and I look up to see him hurrying into the office, his face pink with excitement. When he sees Optimus Prime, he stops dead. "Oh!"

"It's all right. I'm simply a cyberfly on the wall." He waves an easy hand at him. "Go ahead. Say whatever you were going to say."

"Hi, Bluestreak!" I manage. "What is it?"

As soon as I say his name, Optimus Prime raises his helm, looking animated.

What did I tell him about Bluestreak? What? My processor spools furiously back. What did I say? What did I—

Suddenly I remember.

…_we have this secret code where he comes in and says, "Can I go through some numbers with you, Hot Rod?" and it really means "Shall we nip out to StarBrights…"_

I told him out skiving code.

I focus desperately on Bluestreak's eager face, trying somehow to convey the message to him.

Do not say it. Do _not_ say you want to go over some numbers with me.

But he's completely oblivious.

"I just, erm…" He clears his intakes in a businesslike way and glances self-consciously at Optimus Prime, who has strolled over towards my desk. "Could I possibly go over some numbers with you, Hot Rod?"

Frag.

I can feel my face flooding with color. My whole body is prickling.

"You know," I say in a bright, artificial voice, "I'm not sure that'll be possible today."

Bluestreak looks instantly crestfallen. "But I have to…I really _need_ you to go over some numbers with me." He nods in consternation.

There's obviously something on his mind. But what am I supposed to do?

"I'm quite tied up here with my work, Bluestreak!" I force a smile, simultaneously trying to telegraph 'Shut _up_!'

"It won't take long! Just quickly."

"I really don't think so."

Bluestreak is practically hopping form foot to foot. "But, Hot Rod, they're very…_important_ numbers. I really need to…to tell you about them…"

"Hot Rod." At Optimus Prime's voice I jump as though I've been stung. He leans toward me confidentially. "Maybe you should go over the numbers."

For a few moments I can't quite speak.

"Right," I manage after a long pause. "Ok, I'll do that."

* * *

Thanks everyone for following this story and your reviews.

Only 2 more revised chapters to go then I will post a new one.

Thanks again,

OptimusPrime's Girlfriend


	9. Chapter 9

Thank you everyone for your reviews, they are greatly appreciated.

Here's the revised Chapter 9

Sparkling - Newborn

Youngling - Child

Breem - 8.3 Earth minutes

Joor - About 6.5 Earth hours

Orn - about 13 Earth days

Cycle – About 3 Earth weeks

Stellar Cycle – About 73 Earth months

Vorn - About 83 Earth years

Enjoy!

* * *

Can you keep a secret?

Chapter 9

I walk along the street with Bluestreak, half numb with fear and half wanting to burst into hysterical laughter. Everyone else is in the office, trying as hard as they can to impress Optimus Prime. And here I am, strolling off nonchalantly under his nose for a cube of hot energon.

"I'm sorry I interrupted you!" says Bluestreak as we push our way through the doors of StarBrights. "With Optimus Prime there and everything! I had no idea he'd be just _sitting_ there! But you know, I was really subtle." He adds reassuringly, "He'll never know what we're up to."

"I'm sure you're right!" I manage. "He'll never guess in a million vorns!"

"Are you ok, Hot Rod?" Bluestreak looks at me curiously.

"I'm fine!" I say with a kind of shrill hilarity. "I'm absolutely fine! So…why the emergency summit?"

We edge our way post two mothers with pushchairs and reach the counter.

"I _had_ to tell you. Two crusted energons, please." Bluestreak beams at me excitedly. "You won't believe it!"

"What is it?"

"I've got a date! I met a new mech!"

"No!" I say, staring at him. "Really? That was quick!"

"Yes! It happened yesterday, just like you said! I deliberately walked farther than usual in my lunch hour, and I found this really nice place where they were serving lunch. And there was this nice mech in the line next to me—and he struck up conversation with me. Then we shared a table and chatted some more…and I was just leaving, when he said did I want to have a drink sometime?" He takes the crusted energons from the counter. "So we're going out this evening!"

"That's fantastic!" I say in delight. "So, come on, what's he like?"

"He's lovely! He's got these lovely sparkly eyes, and he's really charming and polite, and he's got a great sense of humor…"

"He sounds great!"

"I know! I have a really good feeling about him! He just seems different. And I know this sounds really stupid, Hot Rod…" He hesitates. "But I feel like you somehow _brought_ him to me."

"Me?"

"You gave me the confidence to speak to him."

"But all I said was—"

"You said you knew I'd meet someone. You had faith in me. And I did!" Suddenly his eyes begin to shine. "I'm sorry," he whispers, and dabs his eyes with a napkin. "I'm just a bit overcome."

"Oh, Bluestreak."

"I just really think my life is going to turn around! I think everything's going to get better. And it's all down to you, Hot Rod!"

"Really, Bluestreak," I say awkwardly. "It was nothing—"

"It wasn't nothing!" He gulps. "And I wanted to do something for you in return." He rummages in his subspace and pulls out a large orange…something. "So I made you this last night." He looks at me expectantly. "It's a desk painting!"

For a few breems, I can't move. An orange desk painting…is that a petrorabbit? Maybe a cyberfish?

"Bluestreak!" I manage at last, turning it over in my hand. "Really, you…you shouldn't have!"

"I wanted to! To say thank you." He looks at me earnestly. "Especially after you lost that wall painting I made for you for Primus Day—"

"Oh!" I say, feeling a pang of guilt. "Er, yes. That was…such a shame." I swallow. "It was a lovely painting. I was really upset to lose it…"

"Oh, what the frag!" His eyes well up again. "I'll make you a new wall painting, too!"

"No!" I say in alarm. "No, Bluestreak, don't do that!"

"But I want to!" He leans forward and gives me a hug. "That's what friends are for!"

* * *

It's another twenty breems before we finish our second

crusted energons and head back for the office. As we approach the Praxus building, I glance at my internal clock and see to my dismay that we've been gone thirty-five breems in all.

"Isn't it amazing we're getting new energon machines?" says Bluestreak as we hurry up the steps.

"Er, yes. It's great."

My tank tightens as I think of facing Optimus Prime again. I haven't felt so nervous since I took my class one fighting exam, and when the examiner asked me what my name was, I burst into tears.

"Well, see you later," says Bluestreak as we reach the first floor. "And thanks, Hot Rod."

"No problem!" I say. "See you later."

As I head along the corridor toward the marketing department, I'm aware that my legs aren't moving quite as quickly as usual. In fact, as the door is nearing, they're getting slower and slower…and slower…

I can't go in there.

Yes, I can. It'll be fine. I'll just sit down very quietly and get on with my work.

Maybe he won't even notice me.

Come on. The longer I leave it, the worse it'll be. I take a deep breath, close my optics, walk into the marketing department, and open them.

There's a hubbub around Cliffjumper's desk, and no sign of Optimus Prime.

"I mean, maybe he's going to rethink the whole company," someone's saying.

"I've heard this rumor he's got a secret project…"

"He can't completely centralize the marketing function." Cliffjumper is saying, trying to raise his voice above everyone else's.

"Where's Optimus Prime?" I say, trying to sound casual.

"He's gone," says Springer, and I feel a whoosh of relief. Gone! He's gone!

"Is he coming back?"

"Don't think so," he replies. "Hot Rod, have you done those letters for me yet? Because I gave them to you several orns ago—"

"I'll do them now," I say, and beam at Springer. As I sit down at my desk, I feel as light as a helium balloon. I cheerfully kick my feet up on my desk, reach for my Evian bottle—and stop.

There's a small pad resting on my keyboard with "Hot Rod" written on it in a handwriting I don't recognize.

Puzzled, I look around the office. No one's looking at me, waiting for me to find it. In fact, no one seems to have noticed. My desk is half hidden behind the photocopier. And besides, they're all too busy talking about Optimus Prime.

Slowly I turn it on. There's a message inside.

_Hope you meeting was productive. I always find numbers give me a real buzz._

_Optimus Prime_

It could have been worse. It could have read, "Clear your desk."

But even so, for the rest of the orn, I'm completely on edge. Every time anyone walks into the department, I feel a little spasm of panic. And when someone starts talking loudly outside our door about "Optimus says he may pop back into Marketing," I seriously consider hiding out in the closet until he's gone.

On the dot of five-thirty, I stop typing mid-sentence, close my terminal down, and get up. I'm not waiting around for him to reappear. I all but run down the stairs, and only begin to relax when I'm safely on the other side of the big glass doors.

The turbo trains are miraculously quick for once, and I arrive home within twenty breems. As I push open the front door of our apartment, I can hear a strange noise coming from Bee's room. A kind of thumping, bumping sound. He's probably moving his furniture around. Which would make sense.

Bee had a big victory in court yesterday—and every time he finishes a case, it's the same thing. He gathers all his bits of pads together and puts them in a file box. He tidies his room and puts all his things away. And then he invites me in to admire, and says, "_This_ is how I'm going to live from now on."

Sure.

"Bee," I call as I go into the kitchen. "You will not believe what happened today." I grab a cube of energon from the kitchen and hold it against my hot helm. Then I wander out into the hall again, to see Bee's door opening.

"Bee!" I began. "What on cybertron were you—"

And then out of the door comes not Bee but another mech.

Another mech! A tall, thin mech in trendy dark blue armor and bright red eyes. He's got jutting cheekbones and a pretty good physique, I can't help noticing, and as he sees me, he inclines his helm politely.

"Oh," I say, taken aback. "Er, hi."

"Hot Rod!" says Bee, following him out. He's wearing his yellow torso armor over some black gray legging armor I've never seen before, is drinking a cube of energon, and looks startled to see me. "You're home early."

"I know. I was in a hurry."

"This is Thundercracker," says Bee, clearly flustered. "Thundercracker, my roommate Hot Rod."

"Hello, Thundercracker," I say , as though this were all perfectly normal.

"Good to meet you, Hot Rod," says Thundercracker in a Vos accent.

Primus, Vos accents are sexy.

"Thundercracker and I were just, um, going over some case notes," says Bee.

"Oh, right," I say. "Lovely!"

Case notes. That would really make a whole load of thumping noises.

Bee is such a sneak!

"I must be going…" says Thundercracker, looking at Bee.

"I'll just see you out."

He disappears through the front door, and I can hear the two of them murmuring on the landing.

I walk into the living room and slump down on the couch. My whole body aches from tension. This is seriously bad for my health. How am I going to survive a whole cycle of Optimus Prime?

"So!" I demand as Bee returns. "What's going on?"

"What do you mean?"

"You and Thundercracker! How long have you two been…"

"We're not…" starts Bee, turning red. "It's not…We were going over case notes. That's all."

"Sure you were."

"We were! That's all it was!"

"Ok." I raise my eyebrows. "If you say so."

Bee sometimes gets like this, all shy and abashed. I'll just have to get him pissed one night, and he'll admit it.

"So, how was your orn?" he asks, sitting down on the floor and reaching for a pad.

I don't even know where to start.

"My orn," I say at last. "My orn was a bit of a nightmare."

"Really?" says Bee, looking up in surprise.

"No, take that back. It was a _complete_ nightmare."

"What happened? Tell me!"

"Ok." I take a deep breath, wondering where on cybertron to start. "Ok, remember I had that awful flight back from Gygax last week?"

"Yes!" Bee's face lights up. "And Prowl came to meet you and it was all really romantic…"

"Yes. Well." I clear my intakes. "Before that. On the flight. There was this…this mech sitting next to me. And the shuttle got really turbulent." I bit my lip. "And the thing is, I honestly thought we were all going to die and this was the last bot I would ever see, and…I…"

"Oh, my Primus!" Bee claps his hand over his mouth. "You didn't interface with him."

"Worse. I told him all my secrets!"

I'm expecting Bee to gasp, or say something sympathetic like 'Oh, no!' but his face is blank.

"What secrets?"

"My secrets. You know."

Bee looks as if I've suddenly told him I've got an artificial leg.

"You have _secrets?_"

"Of course I have secrets!" I say. "Everyone has a few secrets."

"I don't!" he says at once, looking offended. "I don't have any secrets."

"Yes, you do!"

"Like what?"

"Like…like…ok." I start counting off on my fingers. "You never told your dad it was you who lost the house key that time."

"That was ages ago!"

"…You never told Flash you were hoping he might propose to you."

"I wasn't!" says Bee, coloring. "Well, ok, maybe I was…"

"…You think that sad mech next door likes you."

"That's not a _secret_!" he says, rolling his optics.

"Oh, right. Shall I tell him, then?" I lean back toward the open window. "Hey, Striker," I call. "Guess what? Bee thinks you—"

"Stop!" says Bee frantically.

"You see? You have got secrets. Everyone has secrets. The _Council_ probably has a few secrets—"

"Ok," says Bee. "Ok. You've made your point. But I don't understand what the problem is. So you told some mech on a shuttle your secrets—"

"And now he's turned up at work."

"What?" Bee goggles at me. "Are you serious? Who is he?"

"He's…" I'm about to say Optimus Prime's name when I remember the promise I made. "He's just this…this mech who's come in to observe.

"Is he senior?"

"He's…yes. You could say he's pretty senior."

"Wow." Bee frowns, thinking for a few moments. "Well…does it really matter? If he knows a few things about you…"

"Bee, it wasn't just a _few_ things." I feel myself flush. "It was _everything_. I told him I faked a grade on my CV…"

"You faked a grade on your _CV_?" echoes Bee in shock. "Are you serious?"

"…I told him about feeding Cliffjumper's organic plant energon. I told him I haven't found my sensory nodes yet…"

I trail off to see Bee's aghast expression.

"Hot Rod," he says at last. "Have you ever _heard_ the phrase 'too much information'?"

"I didn't _mean_ to say any of it!" I know I sound defensive. "It just kind of came out! I'd had three cubes of high grade, and I thought we were about to die. Honestly, Bee, you would have been the same. Everyone was screaming, bots were praying, the shuttle was bouncing around…"

"So you blab all you secrets to your boss!"

"But he _wasn't_ my boss on the shuttle!" I cry in frustration. "He was just some stranger! I was never supposed to see him again!"

There's silence as Bee takes this all in.

"You know, this is like what happened to my cousin," he says at last. "She went to a party, and there, right in front of her, was the doctor who'd delivered her sparkling two stellar cycles before."

"Ooh." I pull a face.

"Exactly! She said she was so embarrassed, she had to leave. I mean, he'd seen everything! She said somehow it didn't matter when she was in a hospital room, but when she saw him standing there, holding a glass of highgrade and chatting about house prices, it was a different matter—"

"Well, this is the same! He knows all my most intimate, personal details! But the difference is, I can't just leave! I have to sit there and pretend to be a good employee! And he _knows_ I'm not—"

"So, what are you going to do?"

"I don't know! I suppose all I can do is try to avoid him!"

"How long is he over for?"

"The rest of the cycle," I say in despair. "The whole cycle."

I pick up the remote and turn on the television, and for a few moments we both silently watch a load of dancing models in skimpy armor.

The ad finishes, and I raise my helm. Bee has a curious look on his face.

"What?" I say. "What is it?"

"Hot Rod…" He clears his intakes awkwardly. "You don't have any secrets from _me_, do you?"

"From _you_?" I say, slightly thrown. "Er…"

A series of images flashes rapidly through my processor. That weird dream I once had about Bee and me interfacing. Those times I've bought market energon and sworn to him it was specially imported. The time when we were 15 vorns and he went to Iacon and I got off with Lightening Strike, whom he had a complete crush on, and never told him.

"Er, no! Of course not!" I say, and quickly take a sip of energon. "Why? Have you got any from me?"

Two dots of pink appear on Bee's cheeks. "No! Of course I haven't!" he says in a stilted voice. "I was just…wondering." He reaches for a pad and starts to flip through it, avoiding my gaze. "You know. Just out of interest."

"Yes, well." I shrug, trying to look nonchalant. "So was I."

Wow. Bee's got a secret. I wonder what it—

Of course. Like he was really going over case notes with that mech. Does he think I'm a complete idiot?

* * *

Ok, one more revision to go then on to new chapters.

Thank you all once again,

OptimusPrime's Girlfriend


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: This story is based off of Sophie Kinsella's book. I don't own any of the Transformers mentioned in this story.**

**Thank you everyone for your reviews, they are greatly appreciated.**

Sparkling - Newborn

Youngling - Child

Breem - 8.3 Earth minutes

Joor - About 6.5 Earth hours

Orn - about 13 Earth days

Cycle – About 3 Earth weeks

Stellar Cycle – About 73 Earth months

Vorn - About 83 Earth years

Enjoy!

* * *

**Can you keep a secret?**

**Chapter 10**

I arrive at work the next morning with exactly one aim: Avoid Optimus Prime.

It should be easy enough. The Praxus Corporation is a huge company in a huge building. He'll be busy in other departments today. He'll probably be tied up in loads of meetings. He'll probably spend all orn on the eleventh floor or something.

Even so, as I approach the big glass doors, my pace slows down, and I find myself peering inside to see if he's around.

"All right, Hot Rod?" says Ironhide the security guard, coming to open the door for me. "You look lost."

"No! I'm great! Thanks!" I give a relaxed little laugh, my optics darting about the foyer.

I can't see him anywhere. This is going to be fine. He probably isn't in yet. He probably isn't even coming in today! I throw my helm back, walk briskly across the marble floor, and start to head up the stairs.

"Optimus!" I suddenly hear as I'm nearing the first floor. "Have you got a minute?"

"Sure."

It's his voice. Where on cybertron—

Bewildered, I look around and suddenly spot him on the landing above, talking to Zeta.

Frag. If he looked down now, he'd see me.

Why does he have to stand right _there_? Doesn't he have some big, important office he can go to? Doesn't he realize I'm trying to avoid him?

Anyway. I'll just…take a different route. Very slowly I tiptoe back down the stairs, trying not to click my feet on the marble.

As soon as I'm out of his view, I feel myself relax, and walk more quickly back down to the foyer. I'll go in the lift instead. No problem. I step confidently across the floor, and I'm right in the middle of the huge expanse of marble when I freeze.

"That's right." It's his voice again. And it seems to be coming nearer. Or am I just paranoid?

"…think I'll take a good look at…"

My helm is swiveling around bewilderedly. Where is he now? Which direction is he going in?

"…really think that…"

Frag. He's coming down the stairs. There's nowhere to hide!

Without thinking twice, I fly to the glass doors, push them open, and hurry out of the building. I scuttle down the steps, run about a hundred yards down the street, and stop, panting.

This is not going well.

Ok. I can't stay out here on the street all orn. Come on, think. There must be a way around this. There must be—

Yes! I have a totally brilliant idea. This will definitely work.

Three breems and a trip to the newsstand later, I once more approach the doors of the Praxus building, totally engrossed in an article. I can't see anything around me. And no one can see my face. This is the perfect disguise!

I push the door open with my shoulder and walk across the foyer and up the stairs, all without looking up. As I stride along the corridor toward the marketing department, I feel all cocooned and safe, buried in my article. I should do this more often. No one can get me in here. It's a really reassuring feeling, almost as though I'm invisible, or—

"Ow! Sorry!"

I've crashed into someone. Frag. I lower my pad, to see Sentinel staring at me, rubbing his helm.

"Hot Rod, what the frag are you doing?"

"I was just…reading an article. I'm really sorry…"

"All right. Anyway, where the frag have you been? I want you to do energon at the departmental meeting. Ten o'clock."

"What energon?" I say, puzzled. They don't usually have any refreshments at the departmental meeting. In fact, usually about six bots turn up, if that.

"We're having energon today. And treats. All right?"

I automatically start to reply. "Yes, of course."

Then I stop. Now that I think about it, this isn't all right.

"Sentinel, when are you going to replace Blast Off? I mean, this is the kind of things he used to do."

There's silence.

"We're in the process of recruitment," Sentinel says at last.

He's not quite meeting my optics.

All of a sudden I remember a conversation I overheard in the lifts a few cycles ago. Two femmes from Personnel were talking about staff budgets and the word "trimming" came up.

Like trimming a crystal? Or like trimming split ends?

"You are _going _to get a new departmental secretary, aren't you?" I try to sound lighthearted—but inside I can feel twinges of alarm. If they don't replace Blast Off, guess who'll end up as the general slave.

"Of course!" Sentinel pauses. "Probably."

"_Probably?"_

"Hot Rod, I really don't have time for this!" says Sentinel impatiently. "Optimus Prime's coming to the meeting. I've got a lot to do—"

"What?" I feel a new consternation, sweeping all thoughts of trimming from my helm.

"Optimus Prime's coming to the meeting. So hurry up."

"Do I have to go?" I say before I can stop myself.

"What?"

"I was just wondering if I…have to go or whether…" I trail off.

"Hot Rod, if you can serve energon by telepathy," says Sentinel sarcastically, "then you're more than welcome to stay at your desk. If not, would you most kindly get your ass in gear and up to the conference room? You know, for someone who wants to advance their career…"He shakes his helm and stalks off.

How can this orn have gone so wrong already and I haven't even sat down yet?

* * *

I dump my pads at my desk, hurry back down the corridors to the lifts, and press the Up button. A moment later the door opens.

No. No.

This is a bad dream.

Optimus Prime is standing alone in the lift, reading a pad.

Before I can stop myself, I take a startled step backward. Optimus Prime puts his pad away in his subspace, tilts his helm to one side, and gives me a quizzical look. He looks disheveled and there are shadows under his optics.

"Are you getting into the elevator?"

"Um…"

I'm stuffed. I can't say, 'No, I just pressed the button for fun, ha-ha!'

"Yes," I say at last, and walk into the lift with stiff legs. "Yes, I am."

The doors close, and we begin to travel upward in silence. I've got a knot of tension in my tanks.

"Erm, Mr. Prime," I begin, and he looks up. "I just wanted to apologize for my…for the, um, shirking episode the other orn. It won't happen again."

"You have drinkable energon now," says Optimus Prime. "So you shouldn't need to go to Starbrights, at any rate…"

"I know. I'm really sorry." My face is hot. "And may I assure you, that was the very last time I ever do such a thing." I clear my intakes. "I am fully committed to the Praxus Corporation, and I look forward to serving this company as best I can, giving one hundred percent, every orn, now and in the future."

I almost want to add 'Amen.'

"Really." Optimus nods, looking serious. "That's great." He thinks for a moment. "Hot Rod, can you keep a secret?"

"Er, yes!" I say apprehensively. "What is it?"

Optimus leans close and whispers, "I used to play hooky, too."

"What?" I say in astonishment.

"In my first job. I had a friend I used to hang out with. We had a code, too. One of us would ask the other to bring him the Leopold file."

"What was the Leopold file?"

"It doesn't exist." He grins. "It was just an excuse to get away from our desks."

"Oh. Oh, right!"

Suddenly I feel a bit better. Optimus Prime used to _skive_? I would have thought he was too busy being brilliant.

The lift stops at floor three and the doors open, but no one gets in.

"So, your colleagues seem like a very agreeable lot," says Optimus as we start traveling up again. "A very friendly, industrious team. Are they like that all the time?"

"Absolutely!" I say at once. "We enjoy cooperating with one another, in an integrated, team-based, um, operational…" I'm trying to think of another long work when I make the mistake of catching his optics.

He _knows_ this is bullshit, doesn't he?

Oh, Primus. What's the point?

"Ok." I lean against the lift wall. "In real life, we don't behave anything like that, Sentinel usually shouts at me six times an orn, and Springer and Cliffjumper hate each other, and we don't usually sit around discussing literature. We were all faking it."

"You amaze me." His mouth twitches. "The atmosphere in the admin. department also seemed very false. My suspicions were aroused when two employees spontaneously started singing the Praxus Corporation song. I didn't even know there _was_ a Praxus Corporation song."

"Neither did I," I say in surprise. "Is it any good?"

"What do you think?" He grimaces in mock horror and I give a little giggle.

It's bizarre, but the atmosphere between us isn't remotely awkward anymore. In fact, it almost feels like we're old friends or something.

"How about this corporate family orn?" he says. "Looking forward to it?"

"Like having my optics pulled out."

"I got that vibe." He nods, looking amused. "And what…" He hesitates. "What do bots think about me?" He casually rubs the side of his helm. "You don't have to answer if you don't want to—"

"No, everyone likes you!" I think for a few moments. "Although…some bots think your friend is creepy."

"Who, Mirage?" Optimus stares at me for a breem, then throws back his helm and laughs. "I can assure you, Mirage is one of my oldest, closest friends, and he's not in the least bit creepy. In fact—"

He breaks off as the lift doors ping. We both snap back into impassive expressions and move slightly away from each other. The doors open, and I freeze.

Prowl is standing on the other side.

When he sees Optimus Prime, his face lights up as though he can't believe his luck.

"Hi there!" I say, trying to sound natural.

"Hi," he says, his optics shining with excitement.

"Plenty of room," says Optimus easily.

There's an infinitesimal pause—then he moves a couple of steps closer to me.

Somewhere in my body a tiny pulse starts beating. Which must be because of the weirdness of the situation.

"Which floor would you like?" says Optimus.

"Nine, please."

Optimus reaches past to press the button. I catch the faint smell of his musky aroma, familiar from the shuttle. I don't move. I don't dare look up.

"Mr. Prime, may I quickly introduce myself?" Prowl eagerly holds out his hand. "Prowl from Research. You're coming to visit our department later on today."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Prowl," says Optimus. "Research is vital for a company like ours."

"You're so right!" says Prowl, thrilled. "In fact, I'm looking forward to discussing with you the latest research findings on Praxus Sportswear. We've come up with some very fascinating results involving customer preferences on armor thickness. You'll be amazed!"

"I'm…sure I will," says Optimus. "I look forward to it."

Prowl gives me an excited grin. "You've already met Hot Rod from our marketing department?" he says.

"Yes, we've met." Optimus's tone gives nothing away.

We travel for a few breems in an awkward silence.

"How are we doing for time?" says Prowl. He glances at me, then down at his red chrono in thought, and in horror I see Optimus glance at it, too.

Oh, Primus.

…_I gave him a really nice chrono, but he insists on wearing this cheap red chrono thing…_

"Wait a breem!" says Optimus, dawn breaking over his face. He peers at Prowl as though seeing him for the first time. "Wait a breem. You're..."

Oh, no.

Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no, oh—

"It's Prowl." Prowl looks puzzled. "Prowl from—"

"I'm sorry!" Optimus hits his helm with his fist. "Prowl. Of course. And you two"-he gestures to me—"are an item?"

Prowl looks uncomfortable. "I can assure you, sir, that at work, our relationship is strictly professional. However. In a private context, Hot Rod and I are…yes, having a personal relationship."

"That's wonderful!" says Optimus encouragingly.

Prowl looks as thrilled as a though he was just given an award. "In fact," he adds proudly, "Hot Rod and I have just decided to move in together."

"That's…great news. When did you make that decision?"

"Just a couple of orns ago," says Prowl. "At the shuttle port."

"At the shuttle port," echoes Optimus Prime after a short silence. "Very interesting."

I can't look at him. I'm staring desperately at the floor. Why can't this fragging lift go quicker?

"Well…I'm sure you'll be very happy together," Optimus Prime says to Prowl. "You seem very compatible."

"Oh, we are!" says Prowl at once. "We both love jazz, for a start."

"Is that so?" says Optimus. "You know, I can't think of anything nicer in the world than a shared love of jazz."

He's teasing me. This is unbearable.

"Really?" says Prowl eagerly.

"Absolutely." Optimus nods. "I'd say jazz, and…Flamewar films."

"We love Flamewar films!" says Prowl in amazed delight. "Don't we, Hot Rod!"

"Yes," I say, my voice hoarse. "Yes, we do."

"Now, Prowl, tell me," says Optimus in confidential tones. "Did you ever find Hot Rod's…"

If he says 'sensory nodes', I will die. I will die. I will _die_.

"…presence here distracting? Because I can imagine I would!" Optimus gives Prowl a friendly smile, but Prowl doesn't smile back.

"As I said, sir," he begins a little stiffly, "Hot Rod and I operate on a strictly professional basis while at work. We would never dream of abusing the company's time for our own…ends." He flushes. "I mean…by ends, I don't mean…I meant…"

"I'm glad to hear it," says Optimus.

Primus, why does Prowl have to be such a…_goody-good?_

The lift pings, and I feel relief drain over me. Thank Primus, at last I can escape—

"Looks like we're all going to the same place," says Optimus Prime. "Prowl, why don't you lead the way?"

* * *

I can't cope with this. I just can't cope. As I put out cubes of energon for members of the marketing department, I'm outwardly calm, smiling at everyone and even chatting. But inside I'm all unsettled and confused. I don't want to admit it to myself, but seeing Prowl through Optimus Prime's optics has thrown me.

I love Prowl. I didn't mean any of what I said on the shuttle. I love him. I run my optics over his face, trying to reassure myself. There's no doubt about it. Prowl is good-looking by any standards. He glows with good health. His armor is shiny and his eyes are blue, and he's got a gorgeous dimple when he smiles.

Optimus Prime never seems to wax. His armor is somewhat faded. _And_ there's scratches and dents in his armor. But even so. It's like he's some kind of magnet. I'm sitting here, my attention firmly on the energon stand—and yet, somehow I can't keep my optics off him.

It's because of the shuttle, I keep telling myself. It's just because we were in a traumatic situation together, and…and that's why. No other reason.

"We need more lateral thinking, people," Sentinel is saying. "The Praxus Bar is simply not preforming as it should. Prowl, you have the latest research statistics?"

Prowl stands up, and I feel a little flip of apprehension on his behalf. I can tell he's really nervous from the way he keeps fiddling with his hands.

"That's right, Sentinel." He picks up a pad and clears his intakes. "In our latest survey, one thousand younglings were questioned on aspects of the Praxus Bar. Unfortunately, the results were inconclusive."

He presses his remote control. A graph appears on the screen behind him, and we all regard it obediently.

"Seventy-four percent of ten-to-fourteen-vorn-olds felt the texture could be more chewy," says Prowl earnestly. "However, sixty-seven percent of fifteen-to-eighteen-vorn-olds felt the texture could be more crunchy, while twenty-two percent felt it could be _less_ crunchy."

I glance over Cliffjumper's shoulder and see he's written 'Chewy/crunchy?' on his notepad.

Prowl presses the remote control again, and another graph appears.

"Forty-six percent of ten-to-fourteen-vorn-olds felt the flavor was too tangy. However, thirty-three percent of fifteen-to-eighteen-vorn-olds felt it was not tangy enough, while…"

Oh, Primus. I know it's Prowl. And I love him and everything. But can't he make this sound a bit more…_interesting_? And anyway, what's the point of all these stupid percentages that don't really mean anything? Those younglings couldn't give a frag. They probably all lied on their forms.

I glance over to see how Optimus Prime is taking it, and he raises his optics and flashes a little grin at me. Immediately I flush, feeling disloyal.

"Ninety percent of femme younglings would prefer the calorie content to be reduced," Prowl concludes. "But the same proportion would also like to see a thicker crusted coating." He gives a helpless shrug.

"They don't know what the frag they want," says someone.

"We polled a broad cross-section of younglings," says Prowl, "including Seekers, Grounders, Aerials, Mariners, and, er"—he peers at the pad—"Ferocious Gladiators. At least, that's what they put."

"Younglings!" says Cliffjumper, rolling his optics.

"Briefly remind us or our target market, Prowl," says Sentinel with a frown.

"Our target market"—Prowl consults another pad—"is aged ten to eighteen vorns, in full-or part-time education. He/she drinks Praxus Energon four times a cycle, eats energon treats three times a cycle, visits the theater twice a cycle, reads articles and comics but not books, is most likely to agree with the lifestyle statement 'It's more important to be cool than rich.'…" He looks up. "Shall I go on?"

"Does he/she eat crusted energon for breakfast?" says somebody thoughtfully "Or oiled?"

"I…I'm not sure," says Prowl, riffling through his pages. "We could do some more research…"

"I think we get the picture," says Sentinel. "Does anyone have any thoughts on this?"

All this time, I've been plucking up the courage to speak, and now I take a deep breath. "You know, my grandpa really likes Praxus Bars!" I say. Everyone swivels in their chairs to look at me, and I feel my face grow hot.

"What relevance does that have?" says Sentinel with a frown.

"It's just that…" I swallow. "He really doesn't like the new papaya oil and pine knots flavor…"

"With all due respect, Hot Rod," says Prowl in an almost patronizing tone, "your grandfather is hardly in our target demographic!"

"Unless he started very young," quips Cliffjumper.

I flush, feeling stupid, and pretend to be reorganizing the energon cubes.

To be honest, I feel a bit hurt. Why did Prowl have to say that? I know he wants to be all professional and proper when we're at work. But that's not the same as being mean, is it? I'd always stick up for him.

"My own view," Cliffjumper is saying, "is that if the Praxus Bar isn't performing, we should axe it. It's quite obviously a problem—"

I look up in dismay. They can't axe the Praxus Bar! What will Grandpa take to his bowling tournaments?

"Surely a fully cost-based, customer-oriented rebranding—" begins somebody.

"I disagree." Cliffjumper leans forward. "If we're going to maximize our concept innovation in a functional and logistical way, then surely we need to focus on our strategic competencies—"

"Excuse me," says Optimus Prime, lifting a hand. There's a sudden prickle of anticipation in the air, and Cliffjumper glows smugly.

"Yes, Mr. Prime?" he says.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he says.

The whole room reverberates in shock, and I cough with laughter without quite meaning to.

"As you know, I've been out of the business arena for a while," Optimus adds. "Could you please translate what you just said into standard Cybertronian?"

"Oh," says Cliffjumper, looking discomfited. "Well, I was simply saying that from a strategic point of view, notwithstanding our corporate vision…" He trails off at his expression.

"Try again. Without using the word 'strategic.' "

"Oh," says Cliffjumper again, and rubs his nose. "Well, I was just saying that…we should…concentrate on…on what we do well."

"Ah! Now I understand. Please, carry on."

As Cliffjumper starts talking again, Optimus shoots me the briefest of glances. And I can't help giving a tiny grin back.

* * *

After the meeting, bots trickle out of the room, still talking, and I go around the table, picking up empty energon cubes.

"It was very good to meet you, Mr. Prime," I can hear Prowl saying eagerly. "If you'd like a transcript of my presentation…"

"You know, I don't think that will be necessary," Optimus says in that dry voice. "I think I more or less got the gist."

Oh, Primus. Doesn't Prowl _realize_ he's trying too hard? I balance all the cubes in precarious piles on the trolley, then start collection the energon treat wrappers.

"Now, I'm due in the design studio right about now," Optimus's saying, "but I don't quite remember where it is…"

"Hot Rod!" says Sentinel sharply. "Can you please show Optimus to the design studio? You can clear up the rest of the energon later."

I freeze, clutching a wrapper.

Please, no more.

"Of course," I manage at last. "It would be a…pleasure. This way."

Awkwardly, I usher Optimus Prime out of the meeting room and we begin to walk down the corridor, side by side. My face is tingling slightly as bots try not to gawk at us. I'm aware of everyone else turning into self-conscious drones as soon as they see him. Bots in adjacent offices are nudging one another excitedly, and I hear at least one bot hissing "He's coming!"

Is it like this everywhere he goes? Mind you, he doesn't even seem to notice.

"So," says Optimus Prime. "You're moving in with Mr. Perfect."

"It's _Prowl_," I say. "And yes. Yes, we are."

"Looking forward to it?"

"Yes. Yes, I am."

We've reached the lifts and I press the button. I can feel his optics on me. I can _feel_ them. "What?" I say defensively, turning to look at him.

"Did I say anything?" As I see the amusement in his optics I feel stung. What does he know about it?

"I know what you're thinking," I say, lifting my chin defiantly. "But you're quite wrong."

"I'm wrong?"

"Look. I know I might have made certain…comments to you on the shuttle," I begin, clenching my fists tightly at my sides. "But what you have to know is that that conversation took place under duress, in extreme circumstances…and I said a lot of things that I didn't really mean!"

"I see," says Optimus thoughtfully. "So…you _don't_ like double oil crusted energon treats."

For an instant, I'm thrown.

"Some things, obviously, I _did_ mean—"

The lift doors ping, and both our heads jerk up.

"Optimus!" says Red Alert, standing on the other side of the lift doors. "I wondered where you were!"

"I've been having a nice chat with Hot Rod here," says Optimus. "He offered to show me the way."

"Ah." Red Alert's dismissive optics run over me. "Well, they're waiting for you in the studio."

"So, um, I'll just go, then."

"See you later," says Optimus. "Good talking to you, Hot Rod."


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer: This story is based off of Sophie Kinsella's book. I don't own any of the Transformers mentioned in this story.**

**Thank you everyone for your reviews, they are greatly appreciated**

Sparkling - Newborn

Youngling - Child

Breem - 8.3 Earth minutes

Joor - About 6.5 Earth hours

Orn - about 13 Earth days

Cycle – About 3 Earth weeks

Stellar Cycle – About 73 Earth months

Vorn - About 83 Earth years

* * *

**Can you keep a secret?**

**Chapter 11**

As I leave the office in the evening, I feel all agitated, like one of those crystal globes you see resting peacefully on shop counters. I was perfectly happy being an ordinary, dull little Vos village. But now Optimus Prime's come and shaken me up, and there are crystal's all over the place, whirling around until I don't know what I think anymore.

And bits of glitter, too. Tiny bits of shiny, secret excitement.

Every time I catch his optics or hear his voice, it's like a little dart to my chest.

Which is ridiculous. Ridiculous.

Prowl is my boyfriend. Prowl is my future. He loves me and I love him and I'm moving in with him. And we're going to have all-wooden floors and shutters and granite work tops. So there.

So there.

I arrive home to find Bee on his knees in the sitting room. He still looks freshly waxed from his court meeting and is helping Sunstreaker into the tightest yellow armor I've even seen.

"Wow!" I say as I sit down on the couch. "That's amazing!"

"There!" pants Bee, and sits back on his heels. "That's the last screw done. Can you breathe?"

Sunstreaker doesn't move an inch. Bee and I glance at each other.

"Sunstreaker!" says Bee in alarm. "Can you breathe?"

"Kind of," says Sunstreaker at last. "I'll be fine." Very slowly, with a totally rigid body, he totters over to where his can of wax is sitting on the table. His armor is golden yellow, and his wax has the kind of perfection you only get with time and very expensive brushes. All to get bonded…or fragged.

"Did you _go _to work today?" inquires Bee.

"Of course I did." Sunstreaker gives him a scathing look. "Till three."

"How on cybertron do you get away with it?"

"I sold a seventy-thousand-credit painting yesterday, thank you very much." Sunstreaker speaks in short snatches, gasping for breath in between. "This armor is my commission."

"Sunstreaker, what happens when you have to sit down?" I ask.

"Or go back to his place?" says Bee in a giggle.

"It's only our second date! I'm not going to go back to his place!" Sunstreaker says in horror. "Mommy says that's not the way to…" He struggles for breath. "…to get bonded…or fragged. Can't be a slutbot."

Sunstreaker's mother is his total role model. She's taller than Sunstreaker, thinner than Sunstreaker, and has 10.5 billion credits from her bonded, which in Sunstreaker's world makes her Primus. Living with Sunstreaker, I've gotten to know Mommy's opinions on pretty much all subjects, including hieroglyphics (vulgar), transvestite bots ("as long as they_ dress_ well"), and whether one should wear skimpy armor when entertaining minor royalty at a charity ball (no).

"But what if you get carried away with desire for each other?" Bee is needling Sunstreaker.

"What if he gropes you at dinner?" I join in.

"He's not _like_ that," says Sunstreaker. "He happens to be the First Assistant Under-Secretary to the Secretary of the Council, _actually_."

I meet Bee's optics and can't help giggling.

"Hot Rod, don't laugh," says Bee, deadpan. "There's nothing wrong with being a secretary. He can always move up, get himself a few qualifications…"

"Oh ha-ha, very funny," says Sunstreaker crossly. "You know, he'll be knighted one day. I doubt you'll be laughing then."

"Oh, I expect I will," says Bee. "Even more so." He suddenly focuses on Sunstreaker, who is still standing by the table, trying to reach his wax. "Oh, my Primus! You can't even pick up your wax, can you?"

"I can!" says Sunstreaker, making one last, desperate effort to bend his body. "Of course I can! There!" He manages to pinch the lid with his long fingers and triumphantly swings it up to us. "You see?"

"What is he suggests dancing?" says Bee slyly. "What will you do then?"

A look of total panic crosses Sunstreakers face, and then disappears. "He won't," he says scornfully. "Gentlebots never suggest dancing."

"Fair point. Have a good time."

As Sunstreaker vanishes out the door, I sit down and flick on the TV. A show is just starting with the tag line "I'm Going to Propose to the Father of My Twins!" and I settle back comfortably on the sofa.

I look over at Bee and he has a preoccupied look on his face. "Conditional!" he says suddenly. "Of course! How could I have been so _stupid_?"

He scrabbles under the couch, pulls out several old crossword pads, and starts searching through them.

Honestly. As if being a top lawyer didn't use up enough processor power, Bee spends his whole time doing crosswords and games of chess by correspondence, and special processor puzzles that he gets from his geeky society of extra-clever bots.

And if he can't solve a clue, he doesn't just throw it out, saying 'stupid puzzle,' like I would. He saves it. Then about 3 stellar cycles later, when we're watching _PlanetEnders_ or something, he'll suddenly come up with the answer. And he's ecstatic! Just because he gets the last word in the box, or whatever.

Bee's my oldest friend, and I really love him. But sometimes I really do _not_ understand him.

"What's that?" I say as he writes in the answer. "Some crossword from the Golden Age?"

"Ha ha," he says absently. "So, what are you doing this evening?"

"Watching TV, of course," I say, gesturing to the screen. "There's no finer entertainment."

"Oh, right. So you won't be interested in this…" He fishes in his subspace and slowly pulls out a large, rusted key ring, to which a brand-new chain is attached.

"What's that?" Suddenly I realize. "No!"

"Yes! I'm in!"

"Oh, my Primus! Bee!"

"I know!" Bee beams at me. "Isn't it fab?"

The key that Bee is holding is the coolest key in the world. It opens the door to a private members' club in Clerkenloy, which is completely happening and impossible to get into…except someone at Bee's chambers is on the founding committee.

"Bee, you're a star!"

I take the key from him and look at it in fascination, but there's nothing on it. No name, no address, no logo, no nothing. It looks a bit like the key to my dad's crystal garden shed, I find myself thinking. But obviously way, way cooler, I add hastily. "Apparently that gorgeous new model from _TopSpin_ is a member! And that femme in that newsflash! Except everyone says she's actually quite—"

"Hot Rod," interrupts Bee. "You do know celebrities aren't guaranteed."

"I know!" I say, a little offended.

Honestly. Who does Bee think I am? I'm a cool and sophisticated Praxian. "_Actually, _I was just thinking how it probably spoils the atmosphere if the place is stuffed full of celebrities," I say. "I mean, can you think of anything worse than sitting at a table, trying to have a nice, normal conversation, while all around you are film stars and models and…and music stars…"

There's a pause while we both consider this.

"So," says Bee casually, "we might as well go and get ready."

"Why not," I say with equal nonchalance.

* * *

Not that it will take long. I mean, I'm only going to do a quick wash. And maybe wax my armor, which I was going to do anyway.

And maybe do a quick paint job.

A joor later Bee appears at the door to my room, armor washed and waxed and a fresh new coat of paint on, which I happen to know he never uses except for fancy parties and meetings.

"What do you think?" he says in the same casual voice. "I mean, I haven't really made much effort—"

"Neither have I," I say drying my second coat of paint. "I mean , it's just a relaxed evening out. I'm hardly even bothering with my paint." I look up and study Bee's face. "Are those optic covers?"

"No! I mean…yes. But you weren't supposed to notice. They're called natural look…it's supposed to blend in and make my optics brighter." He goes over to the mirror and closes his optics then reboots them. "Are they really obvious?"

"No!" I say reassuringly, and turn back around to finish the last paint strip on my arm. When I look up again, Bee is staring at my shoulder.

"What's that?"

"What?" I say innocently, and touch the little crystal hieroglyphic on my shoulder. "Oh, _this._ Yes, it just sticks on. I thought I'd wear it for fun." I set down my brush, and stand up.

"Do you think we look too much?" Says Bee as I go and stand next to him in front of the mirror. "What if everyone's armor is scuffed and their paint is faded and we look really stupid?"

Bee is always completely paranoid about what everyone else will look like. When he had to go to his first fancy dinner, he didn't know what "freshly waxed look" meant. He made me stand outside the door with six different types of paints and was so he could quickly change if he was too polished or not enough. (Of course, the original paint and wax he'd put on was fine. I _told_ him it would be.)

"They won't have scuffed armor or faded paint!" I say. "Come on-let's go."

"We can't!" Bee says checking his internal clock. "It's too early."

"Yes, we can. We can be just having a quick drink on our way to _another_ celebrity party."

"Oh, yes." Bee brightens. "Cool. Let's go!"

* * *

It takes us about fifteen breems to get from our apartment to the club. Bee leads me down an empty road new a market, full of warehouses and empty office buildings. Then we turn a corner, and then another corner, until we're standing in a small alley.

"Right," says Bee, standing under a street lamp, and consulting a pad. "It's all hidden away somewhere."

"Isn't there a sign?"

"No. The whole point is, no one except members knows where it is. You have to knock on the right door and ask for Beatdown."

"Who's Beatdown?"

"Dunno." Bee shrugs. "It's their secret code."

Secret code! This gets cooler and cooler. As Bee squints at an intercom set in the wall, I look idly around. This street is completely nondescript. In fact, it's pretty dingy. Just rows of identical doors and blanked-out windows and barely any sign of life. But just think. Hidden behind this grim façade is the whole of Praxian celebrity society!

"Hi, is Beatdown there?" says Bee nervously. There's a moment's silence, then, as if by magic, the door slides open.

Looking apprehensively at each other, we make out way down a lit hallway pulsing with music. We come to a flat stainless-steel door, and Bee reaches for his key. As it opens, I quickly morph my faceplates into a more relaxed, almost bored, looking way.

"Ok," Bee mutters. "Don't look. Don't stare."

"All right," I mutter back, and follow Bee into the club. As he shows his membership card to a femme at a desk, I stare studiously at his back, and as we walk through into a large, dim room, I keep my optics on the beige floor. I'm not going to gawk at the celebrities. I'm not going to stare. I'm not going to—

"Look out!"

Oops. I was so busy gazing at the floor, I blundered right into Bee.

"Sorry," I whisper. "Where shall we sit down?"

I don't dare look around the room for a free seat, in case I see a celebrity and he thinks I'm ogling him. "Here," says Bee, gesturing to a table with an odd little jerk of his head.

Somehow we manage to sit down, and pick up the lists of high-grades, all the time rigidly staring at each other.

"Have you seen anyone?" I murmur.

"No. Have you?"

"No." I scan the high-grade menu, keeping my optics down.

Primus, this is a strain. My optics are starting to ache. I want to _see_ the place. "Bee," I hiss. "I'm going to look around."

"Really?" Bee peers at me anxiously. "Well…ok. But be careful. Be _discreet._"

"I will. I'll be fine!"

Ok. Here we go. A quick, non-gawking sweep. I lean back in my chair, clear my intakes, then allow my optics to skim swiftly around the room, taking in as much detail as quickly as I can. Low lighting…lots of purple sofas and chairs…a pair of mechs…three femmes with scuffed armor—Primus, Bee's gunna freak—a couple whispering to each other and giggling…a mech with a visor, reading _Private Eye_…and that's it.

That can't be it.

This can't be right. Where's the celebrities? Where are all the models?

"Who did you see?" hisses Bee, still staring at the high-grade menu.

"I'm not sure," I whisper uncertainly. "Maybe that guy with the visor is some famous actor?"

Casually, Bee turns in his seat and gives him a look. "I don't think so," he says at last, turning back.

"Well, how about the mech in the gray armor?" I say, gesturing hopefully. "Is he in a band or something?"

"Mmm…no. I don't think so."

There's silence as we look at each other.

"Is _anyone_ famous here?" I say at last.

"Celebrities aren't guaranteed!" says Bee defensively.

"I know! But you'd think—"

"Hi!" A voice interrupts us and we both look around, to see two femmes in bright blue armor approaching our table. One of them is smiling at me nervously. "I hope you don't mind, but my friends and I were just wondering—aren't you that new mech in _Skiving Days?"_

Oh, for Primus's sake.

* * *

I can't help feeling a bit disappointed. Not to see a _single_ famous bot.

But never mind. We didn't come here to see celebrities taking drugs and showing off, I tell myself. We just came to have a nice, quiet drink together.

We order some high-grade and some luxury mixed knuts. And I have to admit, I feel a bit more relaxed, now that I know there's no one famous to impress.

"How's your work going?" I ask, as I sip my drink.

"Oh, it's fine," says Bee with a shrug. "I saw the Iacon Fraudster today."

The Iacon Fraudster is this client of Bee's who keeps being charged with fraud and appealing and—because Bee's so brilliant—getting let out. One minute he's wearing stasis cuffs; the next he's dressed in the finest armor and taking him to lunch at the Ritz.

"He tried to buy me a crystal crest," says Bee, rolling his optics. "He had this Asprey's catalog and he kept saying 'That one's rather jolly.' And I was like, 'Kickbox, you're in prison! Concentrate!'" He shakes his helm, takes a sip of his drink, and looks up. "So…what about your mech?"

I know at once he means Optimus, but I don't want to admit that's where my processor has leapt to, so I attempt a blank look and say, "Who, Prowl?"

"No, you dope! Your stranger on the shuttle. The one who knows everything about you."

"Oh, _him_." I feel a flush coming to my cheeks and look down at my drink.

"Yes, him! Have you managed to avoid him?"

"No," I admit. "He won't fraggin leave me alone."

Bee gives me a close look. "Hot Rod, do you like this guy?"

"No, of course I don't _like_ him," I say hotly. "He just…disconcerts me, that's all! It's a completely natural reaction. You'd be the same. Anyway, it's fine. I only have to get through one more cycle. Then he'll be gone."

"And then you'll be moving in with Prowl. Lucky you!" Bee takes a sip of his high-grade and leans forward. "You know, I reckon he's going to ask you to bond with him!"

"Really?" I say feeling as though I've swallowed a chunk of metal. "I mean…yes. Prowl's just…great." I start to daze out at the dancing bots.

"Hot Rod?" I lift my head to see Bee peering at me questioningly. "Is something wrong?"

"I suppose the only _tiny_ little thing would be…that it's not that romantic anymore."

"You can't expect it to be romantic forever! Things change. It's natural to become a bit more steady."

"Oh, I know that! We're two mature, sensible bots in a loving, steady relationship. Which…you know, is just what I want. Except…" I clear my intakes awkwardly. "We don't interface _that_ often anymore."

"That's a common problem in long-term relationships," says Bee knowingly. "You need to spice it up."

"With what?"

"Have you tried stasis cuffs?"

"No! Have you?" I stare at Bee, riveted.

"A long time ago," he says with a dismissive shrug. "They weren't all that." He leans forward. "Hot Rod…"

"Yes?" I hold my breath. Is he going to give me advice on bondage gear?

"You've got something stuck between you dental plates."

"Ooh!" I say in horror, and pull a small mirror out of my subspace, but it's too dim I here to see my reflection. "I'll just pop into the wash racks." I stand up and call back over my shoulder. "Can you order me another drink?"

The wash rack is all limestone and glass shower stalls, which you operate by waving your arms about. I fix my dental plates then check my reflection in the mirror. And just as I'm starting to turn around to head back out I hear a moan from a shower stall.

I ignore it and carry on walking back to the door. But then there's another one. Then another, much longer one. I pause and look at the shower stall, feeling uncertain. Should I do anything. Maybe some mech is ill in there.

Or maybe he's taken a drug overdose, I think in sudden horror. It's a celebrity on drugs. I knew it. There's another moan, and a muffled knocking sound against the door. I feel a faint queasiness. Has he passed out?

"Er, hello?" I say softly.

There's no answer. Now what do I do?

A cry of pain breaks the silence and I clap a servo over my mouth. He must be in agony. He must have cracked his helm on the floor.

"It's ok!" I say quickly, getting down onto my knees and craning to see underneath the door. I'll try to make eye contact with him and establish a bond, then I'll go into the next stall and somehow climb over the partition—

Hang on.

I'm looking at three feet. Two are bright pink…and one is dark black. As I watch, the other black foot appears on the floor.

And know the knocking sound has started again. Except it's more of a…rocking. And the moaning is more like—

I don't believe this.

I scramble to my feet, feeling a wash of embarrassment. What, they're just having a blatant interface and not worrying about anyone else? Prowl and I would never do that. Not in a million vorns. I mean, the very _thought_ of Prowl and me getting it together in some public place, where someone could easily come across us…

I catch sight of my own flushed reflection.

Actually…that's an idea.

I hurry out of the wash rack, down the hall, and back through the dim bar to our table, where Bee looks up in excitement.

"Hot Rod! Where _were_ you! You'll never—"

"I have it." I interrupt, sliding into my chair. "I have the answer. It came to me in the wash rack. I'm going to seduce Prowl in public. Like, at work or somewhere. That'll put the fizz back in our interface life. What do you think?"

"Hot Rod, you just missed Knockout! He just came in here! He was in this amazing dark armor and he looked totally gorgeous! And he was _alone_!"

For a full five breems I cannot speak.

I missed him. I missed a genuine A-list celebrity. By trying to help someone who didn't need help at all! That is—I'm never helping anyone again.

But at last the feeling returns to my face. At last Bee persuades me that if Knockout came here once, he will again—and he promises we'll return as many times as it takes to se him.

"And I think your idea is fantastic!" he adds encouragingly. "It'll definitely work!"

This finally cheers me up enough to have another cube of high-grade. In fact, the more I think about my plan, the more pleased I feel with myself. I'll frag Prowl at work tomorrow, and it will be the best interface we've ever had…and the sparkle will come back…and we'll be madly in love again. Easy. And that will show Optimus Prime.

No. This is nothing to do with Optimus Prime. I don't know why that slipped out.

* * *

There's only one tiny problem to my scheme. Which is that it's not quite as easy to frag your boyfriend at work as you'd think. I hadn't quite appreciated before how…_open_ everything is in our office. And how many glass partitions there are. And how many bots there are, walking around all the time.

By mid-afternoon the next orn, I still haven't managed to put a game plan together. I think I'd king of pictured doing it behind a potted plant somewhere. But not that I actually look at the, potted plants are tiny. There's no way Prowl and I would be able to hid behind one, let alone risk any…movement.

We can't do it in the wash racks. They always have femmes in there, gossiping and putting on coats of paint.

We can't do it in Prowl's office, because the walls are completely made of glass and there aren't any blinds or anything.

Oh, this is ridiculous. Bots having affairs must interface at the office all the time. Is there some special fraggin room I don't know about?

I can't comm. Prowl and ask for suggestions, because it's crucial that I surprise him. The shock element will be a huge turn-on and make it really sizzling hot and romantic. Plus, there's a tiny risk that if I warn him, he'll go all corporate on me and insist we take a joor's unpaid leave for it, or something.

I'm just wondering whether we could creep out onto the fire escape, when Springer comes out of Sentinel's office, talking about margins.

My helm jerks up, and I feel a nervous twinge. There's something I've been trying to pluck up courage to say to him since that big meeting last orn.

"Hey, Springer," I say as he walks by my desk. "Praxus Bars are you product, aren't they?"

"If you can call them a product."

"Are they going to get rid of them?"

"More than likely."

"Well, listen," I say quickly. "Can I have a tiny bit of the marketing budget to put a coupon ad in a magazine?"

Springer swivels to face me. "Do what?"

"Put it in an ad! It won't be very expensive. I promise. No one will eve notice."

"Where?"

"_Bowling Cycles_," I say, flushing slightly. "My grandpa gets it."

"_Bowling _What?"

"Please! Look, you don't have to do anything. I'll sort it all out. It'll be less than a thousand credits. It'll be so cheap compared to all the other ads you've run…" I'm _willing_ him to say yes. "Please…please…"

"Oh, all right!" he says impatiently.

"Thanks!" I beam at him, as he walks off, reach for my comm. Unit and dial Grandpa's number.

"Hi, Grandpa!" I say as his answering machine beeps. "I'm putting a credit-off coupon ad for Praxus Bars in _Bowling Cycles_. So tell all your friends! You can stock up cheaply! I'll see you soon. Ok?"

"Hot Rod?" Grandpa Kup's voice suddenly booms into my audios. "I'm here! Just screening."

"Screening?" I echo. Grandpa screens?

"It's my new hobby. Have you not heard of it? You listen to your friends leaving messages and laugh at them. Most amusing."

"So you'll buy _Bowling Cycles_?"

"I certainly will. And I'll spread the word at the club. Now, Hot Rod, I was meaning to comm. you. I saw a very alarming piece on the news last orn about muggings in central Praxus."

Not this again. "Grandpa—"

"Promise me you don't take Praxus transports, Hot Rod!"

"I, er, promise," I say, crossing my fingers. "Grandpa, I have to go, really. But I'll call again soon. Love you."

"Love you, too, darling mech."

As I put the comm. unit down I feel a tiny glow of satisfaction.

"I'll just have to go and fetch it out of the archives," Trailbreaker is saying to Skyfire across the office.

Hang on.

The archive room. Of course. Of course! No one goes to the archive room unless they absolutely have to. It's very down in the lower levels, and it's all dark with no windows, and loads of old pads and crates.

It's perfect!

"I'll go," I say, trying to sound nonchalant. "If you like. What do you have to find?"

"Would you?" says Trailbreaker gratefully. "Thanks, Hot Rod! It's an old ad in some defunct pad. This is the reference." He hands me a pad, and as he walks away I pick up my comm. and dial Prowl's number.

"Hey, Prowl," I say in a low, husky voice when he picks up. "Meet me in the archive room. I've got something I want to show you."

"What?"

"Just…be there," I say.

I hurry down the hall as quickly as I can, but as I pass Admin., I'm accosted by another bot, who wants to know if I'd like to hang out sometime. So I don't actually get to the lower levels for a few breems, and when I open the door, Prowl is standing there, tapping his foot.

That's rather annoying. I'd planned to be waiting for him. I was going to be sitting on crate, one leg crossed over the other, showing off my legs.

Oh, well.

"Hi," I say.

"Hi," says Prowl with a frown. "Hot Rod, what is this? I'm really busy this morning."

"I just wanted to see you. A lot of you." I push the door shut and trail my finger down his chest. "We never make love spontaneously anymore."

"What?" Prowl seems stunned.

"Come on." I say tugging him deeper into the room. "Let's do it. Right here, right now."

To be honest, I'm not feeling that turned-on myself. But I'll just have to do what I can. They say if you smile even when you don't feel like it, you send happy thoughts to your processor and cheer yourself up. So if I _behave_ as though I'm full of desire, then surely…

"Are you _crazy_?" says Prowl, pushing my fingers out of his armor and hastily stepping away. "Hot Rod, we're in the office!"

Of course, it would help if Prowl joined in…

"We're young. We're supposed to be in love—" I step back up to him and trail a servo even further down, and Prowl's optics widen.

"Stop!" he hisses. "Stop right now! Hot Rod, are you overcharged or something?"

"I just want to interface! Is that too much to ask?"

"Is it too much to ask to suggest we do it in the berth like normal bots?"

"But we don't _do_ it in the berth! I mean, hardly ever!"

There's a sharp silence.

"Hot Rod," says Prowl at last. "This isn't the time or the place—"

"It is! It could be! This is how we get the spark back! Bee said—"

"You discussed our interfacing life with Bee?" Prowl looks appalled.

"Obviously I didn't mention _us_," I say, hastily backtracking. "We were talking about…about couples in general…Come on, Prowl!" I shimmy close to him and pull one of his servos atop of my interfacing unit. "Don't you find this exciting? Just the thought that someone could be walking down the hall right now, reaching toward the door…" I come to a halt as I hear a sound.

I think someone _is_ walking down the hall right now.

Oh, frag.

"I can hear footsteps!" Prowl pulls sharply away from me, but his servo stays exactly where it is, inside my interfacing unit. He stares at it in shock. "I'm stuck! My fraggin servo! It's stuck in your unit!" He yanks at it. "Frag! I can't move my arm!"

"Pull it!"

"I am pulling it!" He looks frantically around. "Where are some pliers?"

"You are not sticking those near my unit!" I say in horror.

"Do you have any other suggestions?" He yanks sharply again, and I give a muffled shriek. "Ow! Stop it! That fraggin hurts! You'll leave paint marks!"

"Oh, I'll leave paint marks. And that's our major concern, is it?"

"If you'd just have agreed to this, we wouldn't-" I break off. There are definitely footsteps approaching. They're nearly outside the door.

"Frag!" Prowl is desperate. "Fragging…fragging…"

He gives a might wrench, and his servo comes free just as the door opens.

Optimus Prime is standing in the doorway, holding a big bundle of old pads. Behind him I can see Thunderblaster, who is Zeta Prime's personal assistant and never, ever cracks a smile.

"Hello," says Optimus.

"Er,hi!" I say, forcing a natural tone. "I was…We were just having…I was _researching_…" I seize on the work in relief. "Researching something."

"So was I," puts in Prowl.

"I see." Optimus's voice is blank and unreadable. His gaze passes from Prowl to me—and back again.

Suddenly a flash of color catches my eye. Black smudges of paint. Right on my interface unit.

Black paint from Prowl's servo.

Oh….frag.

"Well, I'll leave you to it," says Optimus, putting the pads down on a table. He pauses as though to say something more—then opens the door and leaves.

I just catch a glimpse of Blaster's dismissive gaze as the door closes. We both stand frozen.

I wish…I don't know what I wish.

"You've left paint marks on me!" I say at last, suddenly feeling irritated beyond belief with Prowl.

"You nearly wrecked both our careers!" Prowl's voice is high-pitched with outrage. "Do you _realize_ what would have happened if—"

"Oh, shut up," I snap, and stalk out of the room. Any desire I had for interfacing has vanished. I feel completely livid with myself. And Prowl. And everybody.

* * *

Ok guys I'm really sorry for the wait. I've been taking care of some personal problems and I've been meaning to update. I actually had this chapter done for a couple of days but Fanfiction is being gay and not letting me upload it.

There's not a lot of Optimus/Hot Rod action but don't worry, it gets better I promise :)

Also I will be in Europe for all of June so I probably won't be posting any chapters in June. I will try and at least post one more before I leave.

Thank you all for your support and love,

OPG


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer: This story is based off of Sophie Kinsella's book. I don't own any of the Transformers mentioned in this story.**

**Thank you everyone for your reviews, they are greatly appreciated**

Sparkling - Newborn

Youngling – Child

Astrosecond – .498 seconds

Breem - 8.3 Earth minutes

Joor - About 6.5 Earth hours

Orn - about 13 Earth days

Cycle – About 3 Earth weeks

Stellar Cycle – About 73 Earth months

Vorn - About 83 Earth years

* * *

**Can you keep a secret?**

**Chapter 12**

It's the following orn. And Optimus Prime is leaving. Thanks Primus.

I really couldn't cope with any more of…of _him_. If I can just keep my helm down and avoid him until I'm done with work and then run out of the door, then everything will be fine. Life will be back to normal and I will stop feeling like my radar's been skewed by some invisible magnetic force.

I don't know why I'm in such a jumpy, irritable mood. Because although I nearly died of embarrassment last orn, my brilliant plan worked. As soon as we got back to our desks, Prowl started sending me apologetic comms. And then last night we interfaced. Twice. With scented candles.

I think Prowl must have read somewhere that your loved ones like scented candles during interface. Because he always looks really pleased with himself when he lights them.

I mean, scented candles are lovely; don't get me wrong. But it's not like they actually _do_ anything, is it?

Anyway. So we interfaced.

And tonight we're going to look at an apartment together. It's not exactly my ideal home but it has a hot tub in the wash racks, which is pretty cool. So my life is coming together nicely. I don't know why I'm feeling so pissed off. I don't know what's—

_I don't want to move in with Prowl, _says a tiny voice in my processor before I can stop it.

No. That can't be right. That cannot possibly be right. Prowl is perfect. Everyone knows that.

_But I don't want to—_

Shut up. We're the perfect couple. We interface with scented candles. And we go for walks. And we read the news together our days off. That's what perfect couples do.

I feel the prick of panic and swallow hard. Prowl is the one good thing in my life. If I didn't have Prowl…what would I have?

The comm unit rings on my desk, interrupting my thoughts and I pick it up.

"Hello, Hot Rod?" comes a familiar dry voice. "This is Optimus Prime."

My spark gives a leap of fright and I nearly spill my energon.

I should never have answered it.

In fact, I should never have come in to work today. "Oh," I say. "Er, hi!"

"Would you mind coming up to my office for a moment?"

"What…me?"

"Yes, you."

I clear my intakes. "Should I…bring anything?"

"No, just yourself."

I put the comm. unit down, feeling nervous. Why does Optimus Prime want to see me?

Is this going to be about what happened last orn?

I take a deep breath, stand up, and make my way up to the eleventh floor. There's a desk outside his suite, but no secretary, so I go straight up to the door and knock.

"Come in."

I cautiously press the button to the side of the door, and the door slides open. The room is huge and bright, with a view over the crystal gardens all the way along to Tower Bridge. I never realized you could see so much from up here. Optimus is sitting at a circular table, with 6 bots gathered around on chairs. Six bots I've never seen before, I suddenly realize, all with elegant armor and a kind of casual smartness. One mech is in an almost bleached yellow armor and it looks like he was talking before I came in.

They all slowly turn toward me. I can feel the tension in the atmosphere.

"Hello," I say, trying to keep as composed as possible. But my face plates are hot, and I know I look flustered.

"Hi," Optimus's face crinkles in a smile. "Hot Rod…relax. There's nothing to worry about. I just wanted to ask you something."

"Oh, right." I'm totally confused. What on cybertron could he have to ask me?

Optimus reaches for a pad and holds it up so I can see it clearly. "What do you think this is a picture of?" he says.

Oh, fraggetty frag.

This is your worst nightmare. This is like when I went for that interview at Laines Bank and they showed me a squiggle and I said I thought it looked like a squiggle.

Everyone is focused on me. I so want to get it right. If only I knew what right was.

I stare at the picture, trying to stay calm. It's a graphic of two lines with an oval hole in the middle. Kind of irregular in shape. I have absolutely no idea what they're supposed to be. None at all. They look like…They look like…

Suddenly I see it. "It's knuts! Two knuts!"

Optimus explodes with laughter, and a couple of bots gave muffled giggles, which they stifle.

"Well, I think that proves my point," says Optimus.

"Aren't they knuts?" I look around the table.

"It's supposed to be a valve," says a mech with a tight voice.

"_A valve?_" I stare at the page. "Oh, right! Well, yes. Now that you say it, I can definitely see a…a valve-like…"

"Knuts." Optimus wipes his optics.

"I've explained, the valve is simply _part_ of a range of symbolic representations of bothood," says the bleached yellow mech defensively. "Valves to represent fertility, an eye for wisdom, the energon for Primus…"

"The point is, the images can be used across the entire range of products," says a femme with black armor, leaning forward. "The health drink, armor, a fragrance…"

"The target market responds well to abstract images," adds tight-voice mech. "The research has shown—"

"Hot Rod." Optimus looks at me again. "Would _you_ buy a drink with a valve on it?"

"Er…" I clear my intakes, aware of a couple of hostile faces pointing my way. "Well…probably not."

A few bots exchange glances.

"This is so irrelevant," someone is muttering.

"Optimus, three creative teams have been at work at this," the yellow femme says earnestly. "We can't start form scratch. We simply cannot."

Optimus takes a sip of energon, wipes his mouth, and looks at her. "You know I cam up with the slogan 'Don't Pause' in two breems on a bar cube.?"

"Yes, we know," mutters the guy with the tight voice.

"We are not selling a drink with a valve on it." Optimus exhales sharply and runs a servo over his helm. Then he pushes his chair back. "Ok, let's take a break. Hot Rod, would you be kind enough to assist me in carrying some of these pads down to Mirage's office?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Primus, I wonder what all that was about. But I don't quite dare ask. Optimus marches me down the hall in silence, and into an elevator. He presses the ninth-floor button. After we've descended a tiny bit, he presses the emergency button, and we grind to a halt. Then, finally, he looks at me.

"Are you and I the only sane bots in this building?"

"Um…"

"What happened to instincts?" His face is incredulous. "No one knows a good idea from a terrible one anymore. Valves." He shakes his helm. "Fragging _valves_!"

I can't help it. He looks so outraged, and the way he says "_valves!"_ seems the funniest think in the world, and before I know it, I've started laughing. For an instant Optimus looks astounded, and then his face kind of crumples, and suddenly he's laughing too. His nose screws right up when he laughs, just like a sparkling's, and somehow this makes this moment seem about a million times funnier.

Oh, Primus. I really am laughing now. I'm giving tiny little snorts, and my back struts hurt, and every time I look at him, I gurgle again.

"Hot Rod…why are you with that guy?"

"What?" I look up, still laughing, until suddenly I realize that Optimus's stopped. He's looking at me with an unreadable expression on his face.

"Why are you with that guy?" he repeats.

I brush my servo over my helm. "What do you mean?"

"Prowl. He's not going to make you happy. He's not going to fulfill you."

For a moment I'm wrong-footed. "Who says?"

"I've gotten to know Prowl. I've sat in meetings with him. I've seen how his mind works. He's a nice mech—but you need more than a nice mech." Optimus gives me a long, shrewd look. "My guess is, you don't really want to move in with him. But you're afraid of ducking out."

I feel a swell of indignation. How dare he read my processor and get it so…so _wrong_. Of course I want to move in with Prowl.

"Actually, you're quite mistaken," I say in cutting tones. "I'm looking forward to moving in with him. In fact…in fact, I was just sitting at my desk, thinking how I can't wait!"

Optimus is shaking his helm. "You need someone with a spark. Who…excites you."

"I told you, I didn't _mean_ what I said on the plane. Prowl _does_ excite me!" I give him a defiant look. "You know when you found us in the archive room? You want to guess what we were doing?"

"I'm pretty sure I know what you were doing," says Optimus. "I assumed it was a desperate attempt to spice up your love life."

"That was not a desperate attempt to spice up my love life!" I almost spit at him. "That was simply a…a spontaneous act of passion."

"Sorry. My mistake."

"Anyway, why do you care?" I fold my arms. "What does it matter to you whether I'm happy or not?"

There's a sharp silence, and suddenly I realize I'm breathing rather quickly. I meet his dark eyes and quickly look away again.

"I've asked myself that same question," says Optimus. "Maybe it's because we experienced that extraordinary shuttle ride together. Maybe it's because you're the only bot in this whole company who hasn't put on some kind of phony act for me."

I would have put on an act! I feel like retorting. If I'd had a choice!

"Maybe it's because you make me laugh," he adds.

I feel a rush of surprise. I make him laugh? In a good way?

"I guess what I'm saying is…I feel as if you're a friend," Optimus continues. "And I care what happens to my friends."

"Oh," I say, and rub my nose.

I'm about to say politely that he feels like a friend, too, when he adds, "Plus, anyone who recites Flamewar films line for line _has_ to be a loser."

I feel a surge of outrage on Prowl's behalf. "You don't know anything about it!" I exclaim. "You know, I wish I'd never sat next to you on the stupid shuttle. You go around saying all these things to…to wind me up, behaving as though you know me better than anyone else—"

"Maybe I do," he says quick as lightning.

"What?"

"Maybe I do know you better than anyone else."

I feel a breathless mixture of outrage and exhilaration. It's as though we're dancing.

"You do not know me better than anyone else!" I retort in the most scathing tones I can muster.

"I know you won't end up with Prowl."

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do."

"No, you don't."

"I do." He's starting to laugh.

"No, you don't! If you want to know, I'll probably end up bonding with Prowl!"

"Bonding with Prowl?" says Optimus, as though this were the funniest joke he's ever heard.

"Yes! Why not? He's tall, and he's handsome, and he's kind, and he's very…He's…" I'm floundering slightly. "And anyway, this is my personal life! You're my boss, and you only met me last cycle, and frankly this is none of your business!"

Optimus's laughter vanishes, and he looks as though I've slapped him. For a few moments he says nothing. Then he takes a step back and releases the lift button. "You're right," he says. The teasing edge has vanished from his voice. "Your personal life is none of my business. I overstepped the mark…and I apologize."

I feel a spasm of dismay. "I…I didn't mean—"

"No. You're right." He stares at the floor for a few moments, then looks up. "So, I leave for Crystal City tomorrow. It's been a very pleasant stay, and I'd like to thank you for all your help. Will I see you at the drinks party tonight?"

"I…I don't know," I say.

The atmosphere has disintegrated.

This is awful. I'm standing, clenching the pads more and more tightly. Optimus's face is impassive. I want to say something, I want to put it back to the way it was before, all easy and joking. But I can't find the words.

We reach the ninth floor, and the door opens.

"I think I can manage these from here," Optimus says. "I really only asked you along for the company."

Awkwardly, I transfer the pads to his arms.

"Well, Hot Rod," he says in the same formal voice. "In case I don't see you later on…it was nice knowing you." He meets my optics, and a glimmer of his old, warm expression returns. "I really mean that."

"You, too."

I don't want him to go. I feel like suggesting a quick drink. I feel like clinging on to his servo and saying, 'Don't leave.' I don't want this to be the end.

Primus, what's _wrong _with me?

"Have a good journey," I manage as he shakes my servo. Then he turns on his heel and walks off down the hall.

I open my mouth to call after him—but what would I say? By tomorrow morning he'll be on a shuttle back to his life. And I'll be left here in mine.

* * *

I feel leaden for the rest of the day. Everyone else is talking about going out for a drink tonight, but I leave work half a joor early. I go straight home to an empty apartment—Bee's doing a case and Sunstreaker's probably getting himself waxed or something. I make myself some hot energon, and am sitting on the couch, lost in my own thoughts, when Prowl lets himself into the apartment.

I look up as he walks into the room, and immediately I know something's different. Not with him. He hasn't changed a bit.

But I have. I've changed.

"Hi," he say, and kisses me lightly on the helm. "Shall we go?"

"Go?"

"To that apartment! Oh, and my mother's given us a housewarming present. It was delivered to work."

He hands me a box, and I pull out a glass energon pot.

"You can keep the sediments separate from the energon. Mom says it really does make a better cube of energon—"

"Prowl…" I hear myself saying. "I can't do this."

"It's quite easy. You just have to lift the—"

"No." I shut my optics, trying to gather some courage. At last I open them again. "I can't do _this._ I can't move in with you."

"What?" Prowl's face kind of freezes. "Has something happened?"

"Yes. No." I swallow. "I've been having doubts for a while. About us. And recently they've…they've been confirmed. If we carry on, I'll be a hypocrite. It's not fair to either of us."

"_What?_ Hot Rod, are you saying you want to…to…"

"I want to break up," I say, my optics fixed on the floor.

"You're joking."

"I'm not joking!" I say in sudden anguish. This is harder than I was expecting. Prowl looks totally crushed. Although what was I expecting? That he'd say, 'Hmm, yes, good idea'?

"But…this is ridiculous! It's ridiculous!" Prowl's pacing around the room now. Suddenly he looks at me.

"It's that shuttle journey."

"What?" Every line in my body jumps. "What do you mean?"

"You've been different ever since that shuttle ride down from Gygax!"

"No, I haven't!"

"You have! You've been edgy; you've been tense…" Prowl squats down in front of me and takes my servos. "Hot Rod, I think maybe you're still suffering from some king of trauma. You could have counseling…"

"Prowl, I don't need counseling!" I jerk my servos away. "But maybe you're right. Maybe that shuttle ride did…" I swallow. "…affect me. Maybe it brought my life into perspective and made me realize a few things. And one of the things I've realized is, we aren't right for each other."

Slowly Prowl sinks down onto the floor, bewildered. "But things have been great! We've been interfacing a lot—"

"I know."

"Is there someone else?"

"No!" I say sharply. "Of course there's no one else!" My thoughts swirl in uncertain circles. Why can't he stop quizzing me?

"This isn't you talking!" says Prowl suddenly. "It's just the mood you're in. I'll run you a nice, hot bath, light some scented candles…"

"Prowl, please!" I exclaim. "No more scented candles! You have to listen to me. And you have to believe me." I look straight into his optics. "I want to break up."

"I _don't_ believe you!" he says, shaking his helm. "I _know_ you, Hot Rod! You're not that kind of bot! You wouldn't just throw away something like that! You wouldn't—"

He stops in shock as, with no warning, I hurl the glass energon pot to the floor.

Stunned, we both watch it bounce on the floorboards.

"It was supposed to break," I explain after a pause. "And that was going to signify that yes, I would throw something away, if I knew it wasn't right for me."

"I think it _has_ broken," says Prowl, picking it up and examining it. "At least, there's a crack."

"There you go."

"We could still use it—"

"No. We couldn't."

"We could get some tape—"

"But it would never work properly. It just…wouldn't work."

"I see," says Prowl after a pause.

And I think, finally, he does.

"Well…I'll be off, then," he says at last. "I'll comm the apartment bots and tell them that we're…" He stops and takes a deep breath. "You'll want your keys back, too."

"Thanks," I say in a voice that doesn't sound like mine. "Can we keep it quiet from everyone at work?" I add. "Just for the moment."

"Of course," he says gruffly. "I won't say anything."

He's halfway out the door when suddenly he turns back, reaching in his subspace. "Hot Rod…here are the tickets for the jazz festival. You have them."

"What?" I stare at them in horror. "No! Prowl, you have them! They're yours!"

"_You_ have them. I know how much you've been looking forward to hearing it." He pushes the brightly colored tickets roughly into my servos, together with the keys of the apartment, and closes my fingers over them.

"I…I…" I swallow. "Prowl…I just…I don't know what to say…"

"We'll always have jazz," says Prowl in a choked-up voice, and closes the door behind him.

* * *

So now I have no promotion _and_ no boyfriend. And everyone thinks I'm crazy.

"You're crazy," Sunstreaker says approximately every ten breems. It's the end of the cycle, early morning, and we're in our usual routine of hot energon and sleepy yawns and nursing hangovers. Or, in my case, breakups. "You do realize you had him?" He frowns at his ankle, which he's painting bright yellow. "I would have predicted a bonding ceremony within six stellar cycles."

"I thought you said I'd ruined all my chances by agreeing to move in with him," I say sulkily.

"Well, in Prowl's case I think you would have been safe." He shakes his helm. "You're crazy."

"Do you think I'm crazy?" I say, turning to Bee, who's sitting a rocking chair with his arm around his knees, sipping on a cube of hot energon. "Be honest."

"Er, no!" says Bee unconvincingly. "Of course not!"

"You do!"

"It's just…you just seemed like such a great couple."

"I know we did. I know we looked great on the outside." I pause, trying to explain. "But the truth is, I never felt I was being myself. It was always a bit like we were…acting. You know. It didn't seem _real_, somehow—"

"That's _it_?" interrupts Sunstreaker, as though I'm talking gibberish. "That's the reason you broke up!"

"It's a pretty good reason, don't you think?" says Bee loyally.

"Of course not! Hot Rod, if you'd just stuck it out and acted being the perfect couple for long enough…you would have _become_ the perfect couple."

"But…but we wouldn't have been happy!"

"You would have been the perfect couple," says Sunstreaker, as though explaining something to a stupid youngling. "_Obviously_ you would have been happy." He cautiously stands up, his legs freshly painted, and starts making his way toward the door. "And anyway. Everyone pretends in a relationship."

"No, they don't! Or at least, they shouldn't…"

"Of course they should! Mom says all this being honest with each other is totally overrated! She's been bonded to Dad for thirty vorns, and he still has no idea her armor isn't really yellow."

As Sunstreaker disappears out of the room, I exchange glances with Bee. "Do you think she's right?" I say.

"No," says Bee uncertainly. "Of course not! Relationships should be built on…on trust…and truth…" He pauses and looks at me anxiously. "Hot Rod, you never told me you felt that way about Prowl."

"I…didn't tell anyone." This isn't quite true, I immediately realize. But I'm hardly going to let on to my best friend that I told more to a complete stranger than to him, and I?

"Well, I really wish you'd confided in me more," says Bee earnestly. "Hot Rod, let's make a new resolution. We'll tell each other _everything_ from now on. We shouldn't have secrets from each other, anyway! We're best friends!"

"It's a deal!" I say with a warm burst of emotion. Impulsively I lean forward and give him a hug.

Bee's so right. We shouldn't keep things from each other. I mean, we've been friends for over twenty vorns!

"So, if we're telling each other everything…" Bee takes a sip of his energon and gives me a sidelong look. "Did your chucking Prowl have anything to do with that guy? The mech from the shuttle?"

I feel a pang, which I ignore by taking a sip of energon. "No," I say without looking up. "Nothing."

We both sit in a comfortable silence for a few moments.

"Oh, Ok!" I say, suddenly remembering. "So, if we're asking each other questions…what were you _really_ doing with that guy Thundercracker in your room?"

Bee takes a breath.

"And don't tell me you were looking at case notes," I add. "Because they wouldn't make all that thumping, bumping noise."

"Oh!" says Bee, looking cornered. "Ok. Well…we were…" He takes a gulp of energon and avoids my gaze. "We were, um, interfacing."

"What?" I stare at him, disconcerted.

"Yes. We were interfacing. That's why I didn't want to tell you. I was embarrassed."

"You and Thundercracker were interfacing?"

"Yes!" He clears his intakes. "We were having a…passionate…raunchy…animalistic interface."

There's something wrong here. Something about his tone just doesn't ring true. When Bee talks about interfacing, that's not how he sounds. And he'd never use the word "animalistic." Or "raunchy," for that matter.

He's lying!

"I don't believe you!" I give him a long look. "You weren't interfacing!"

Pink dots of Bee's cheeks immediately spread across his face. "Yes, we were!"

"No, you weren't. Bee what were you _really_ doing?"

"We were interfacing, ok?" says Bee, not agitated. "He's my new boyfriend, and…that's what we were doing! Now, just leave me alone!" He gets up and heads out of the room, tripping slightly on his feet.

Why is he lying? What on cybertron was he doing in there? What's more embarrassing than interfacing, for Primus's sake? I'm so intrigued, I almost feel cheered up.

* * *

To be honest, it's not the greatest cycle of my life. It's made even less great when the mail arrives and I get a card from Mom and Dad from Le Spa Meridien, telling me what a fantastic time they're having. And even _less_ great when I read my fortune, and it tells me, 'You may just have made a rash mistake. Examine your motives carefully'.

I lie in bed one night, unable to sleep. Then, at about three in the morning, I find myself replaying that final meeting with Optimus over and over in my mind. I even start composing light, friendly comms send to him in Crystal City. _Hope you had a good trip back…It was great to meet you…_

But who am I kidding? I'm not going to send him any comms. He's probably forgotten who I am already. It was an interesting experience meeting him—and now it's over.

* * *

By the time I wake up to go to work next morning, I feel a lot better. My new life starts today. I'm going to forget all about love and romance and concentrate on my career. As I get ready for work, I reach for my expensive wax and paints. I'll show Sentinel who's ready for a promotion.

Maybe I'll even look for a new job. Yes!

As I pull up to the office, I fantasize applying for a job as marketing executive at one of our competing companies. And I'll get it. And Sentinel will suddenly realize what a terrible mistake he made, not promoting me. And he'll ask me to stay, but I'll say "It's too late. You had your chance." And then he'll beg, "Hot Rod, is there anything I can do to change your mind?" And then _I'll _say—

By the time I reach the building, Sentinel is groveling on the floor as I sit nonchalantly on his desk, holding one knee (I also seem to be wearing new armor) and saying, "You know, Sentinel, all you had to do was treat me with a little respect—"

Frag. My optics suddenly focus and I stop in my tracks, servo on the glass door. There's what looks like a white and black helm in the foyer.

Prowl. I can't go in there. I can't do it. I can't—

Then the helm moves, and it's not Prowl at all; it's Sideways from Accounts. I push the door open, feeling like a complete flake. Primus, I'm a mess. I have to get a grip on myself, because I will run into Prowl before too long, and I'm just going to have to handle it.

At least no one at work knows yet, I think as I walk up the stairs. That would make things a million times harder. To have bots coming up to me and saying—

"Hot Rod, I'm so sorry to hear about you and Prowl!"

"What?" I stop in shock and see a femme, whose name I can't remember, coming toward me.

"It was such a bold from the blue! Of all the couples to split up, I would never have said you two. But it just shows, you never can tell…"

"How…how do you know?"

"Oh, everyone knows!" she says. "You know there was a little drinks party two nights ago? Well, Prowl came to it, and he got quite drunk. And he told everyone. In fact, he made a little speech!"

"He…he did what?"

"It was quite touching, really. It was all about how the Praxus Corporation felt like his family and how he knew we would all support him through this difficult time. And you, of course," she adds as an afterthought. "Although since you were the one who broke it off, Prowl's really the wounded party." She leans forward confidentially. "I have to say, a lot of the bots were saying you must have a screw loose!"

I cannot believe this. Prowl gave a speech about our breakup. After promising to keep it quiet. And now everyone's on _his_ side.

"Right," I say at last. "Well, I'd better get on—"

"It just seems like such a shame!" Her inquisitive optics run over me. "You two seemed so perfect!"

"I know we did." I force a smile. "Anyway. See you late."

* * *

I head for the new energon machine, trying to get my helm around this, when a tremulous voice interrupts me. "Hot Rod?"

I look up in apprehension. It's Bluestreak, peering at me as though I've suddenly grown three heads.

"Oh, hi!" I say, trying to sound breezy.

"Is it true?" he whispers. "Is it true? Because I won't believe it's true until I hear you say it yourself."

"Yes," I say reluctantly. "It's true. Prowl and I have broken up."

"Oh, Primus." Bluestreak's breathing becomes quicker and quicker. "Oh, my Primus. It's true. Oh my Primus, oh my Primus, I really can't cope with this…"

Frag. He's hyperventilating. I grab an empty cube and shove it over his mouth.

"Bluestreak, calm down!" I say helplessly. "Breathe in…and out…"

"I've been having panic attacks since I found out," he manages between breaths. "I woke up last night shaking and I just thought to myself, 'If this is true, the world doesn't make sense anymore'. It simply makes no sense."

"Bluestreak, we broke up! That's all! Bots break up all the time.."

"But you and Prowl weren't just bots! You were _the_ couple." He removes the cube from his face. "I mean, if you can't make it, why should any of the rest of us bother even trying?"

"Bluestreak, we weren't _the_ couple!" I say, trying to keep my temper. "We were _a _couple. And it went wrong, and…and these things happen!"

"But—"

"And to be honest, I'd rather not talk about it."

"Oh," he says. "Oh, Primus, of course. Sorry, Hot Rod. I didn't…I just…You know, it was such a shock."

"Come on—you haven't told me how your date with Crosswise went yet," I say firmly. "Cheer me up with some good news."

The energon machine beeps, and I reach to get a cube to pour it in. Bluestreak's breathing has gradually calmed.

"Actually…it went rather well," he says. "We're going to see each other again!"

"Well, there you go!"

"He's so charming. And gentle. And we have the same sense of humor, and we like the same things…." A bashful smile spreads across Bluestreak's face. "Actually, he's lovely!"

"He sounds wonderful! You see?" I squeeze his arm. "You and Crosswise will probably be a far better couple than Prowl and I ever were. Do you want some energon?"

"No, thanks, I've got to go. We've got a meeting with Optimus Prime about personnel. See you."

"Ok, see you," I say absently.

After five astroseconds later, my processor clicks into gear. "Wait." I hurry down the hall and grab his shoulder. "Did you just say…Optimus Prime?"

"Yes."

"But…but he's gone. He left two orns ago."

"No, he didn't. He changed his mind."

"So…" I swallow. "So…he's here?"

"Of course he's here!" says Bluestreak with a laugh. "He's upstairs!"

Suddenly my legs won't work properly. "Why…" I clear my intakes, which has gone a little grainy. "Why did he change his mind?"

"Who knows?" Bluestreak shrugs. "He's the boss. He can do what he likes, can't he? Mind you, I've always though he seems very mellow. He was really nice to Prowl after he gave his little speech…"

I feel a fresh jolt. "Optimus Prime heard Prowl's speech? About our breaking up?"

"Yes! He was standing right next to him. And afterward he said something really nice like he could just image how Prowl was feeling. Wasn't that sweet?"

I need to sit down. I need to think. I need to…

"Hot Rod, are you ok?" says Bluestreak in dismay. "Primus, I'm so insensitive—"

"No. It's fine," I say in a daze. "I'm fine. I'll see you later."

This is not the way it was supposed to happen. Optimus Prime was supposed to be back in Crystal City. He was supposed to have no idea that I went straight home from our conversation and dumped Prowl.

I feel humiliated. He'll think I dumped Prowl because of what he said to me in the elevator, won't he? He'll think it was all because of him. Which it so _wasn't_.

At least…not completely…

Maybe that's why—

_No_. It's ridiculous to think that his staying has anything to do with me. Ridiculous.

As I near my desk, Cliffjumper looks up from his computer. "Oh, Hot Rod. I was sorry to hear about you and Prowl."

"Thanks," I say. "But I don't really want to talk about it, if that's ok—"

"Fine," says Cliffjumper. "Whatever. I was just being polite."

He looks at a pad on his desk. "There's a message for you from Optimus Prime, by the way."

"What?" I start.

"Could you please take the…" He squints at the pad. "…the Leopold file to his office. He said you'd know what it was. But if you can't find it, it doesn't matter."

The Leopold file.

_It was just an excuse to get away from our desks…_

It's a secret code. He wants to see me.

Oh, my Primus. Oh, my Primus.

I have never been more thrilled and petrified. Both at once.

I sit down and stare blankly at my screen for a breem. Then, with trembling fingers, I take out a blank pad. I wait until Cliffjumper has turned away, then write 'Leopold' on it.

Hastily I go into the company database and do a quick search for 'Leopold'. But nothing comes up.

Ok. I was right the first time.

I'm about to push my chair back when I suddenly have a paranoid thought. What if someone stops me and asks what the Leopold file is? Or what if I drop it on the floor and everyone sees it's empty?

Quickly, I open a new document on the pad, invent a fancy letter-head, and type a letter from a Mr. Leopold to the Praxus Corporation.

"Right," I say casually, tucking the pad under my arm. "Well, I'll just take that file up, then…"

Cliffjumper doesn't even turn his helm.

As I walk through the halls, I'm pulsing with nerves. I feel as though everyone in the building must know what I'm doing.

Why does Optimus Prime want to see me? Because if it's just to tell me he was right all along about Prowl, then he can just…he can just fraggin well…Suddenly I have a flashback to that awful atmosphere in the elevator. What if it's really awkward?

I don't have to go, I remind myself. He did give me an out. I could easily comm his secretary and say, "Sorry, I couldn't find the Leopold file," and that would be the end.

For an instant I hesitate, my fingers tightly clutching the pad. And then I carry on walking

* * *

The door to Optimus's office is being guarded not by one of the secretaries but by Mirage. As he hears me coming, he looks up and his pale optics give a flicker. He doesn't smile.

Oh, Primus. I know Optimus has said he's his oldest friend, but I can't help it. I do find this guy creepy. "Hi," I say. "Er, Mr. Prime asked me to bring up the Leopold file."

Mirage looks at me, and for an instant it's like a little silent communication is passing between us. He knows, doesn't he? He probably uses the Leopold file code himself. I hear his comm. click on and after a moment he says, "Optimus, Hot Rod is here with the Leopold file." Then he clicks off his comm and says, "Go straight in."

I walk in, feeling all prickly with self-consciousness. Optimus is sitting behind a big steel desk. As he looks up, his optics are warm, and I feel myself relax just a bit.

"Hello," he says.

"Hello," I reply. "So, um, here's the Leopold file." I hand him the pad.

"The Leopold file." He laughs. "Very good." Then he opens it and looks at the words in surprise. "What's this?"

"It's a…it's a letter from Mr. Leopold of Leopold and Company."

"You composed a letter from Mr. Leopold?" He seems astonished. Suddenly I feel really stupid.

"Just in case I dropped the pad on the floor and someone saw," I mumble. "I thought I'd just quickly make something up. It's not important…" I try to take it back, but Optimus moves it out of my reach.

" 'From the office of Leopold,'" he reads out loud. "I see he wishes to order six thousand crates of Praxus Cola. Quite a customer, this Leopold."

"It's for a corporate event," I explain. "He normally uses regular energon, but recently one of his employees tasted Praxus Cola, and it was so good…"

"He simply had to switch," finishes Optimus. " 'May I add that I am delighted with all aspects of your company, and have taken to wearing a Praxus Cola crest, which his quite lovely.'" He's silent for a moment, then looks up with a smile. To my surprise, his optics are shining. "You know, Alpha would have adored this."

"Alpha Trion?" I say hesitantly.

"Yup. It was Alpha who came up with the whole Leopold file maneuver. This was the kind of stuff he did all the time." He taps the pad. "Can I keep it?"

"Of course," I say, touched. He opens his subspace and puts it in there, and for a few moments there's silence.

"So," says Optimus at last. He raises his helm and gives me a long, searching look. "You broke up with Prowl."

Wow. So we're straight to the point.

"So," I reply defiantly. "You decided to stay."

"Yes, well…" He stretches out his fingers and studies them briefly. "I thought I might take a closer look at some of the Praxus subsidiaries." He looks up. "How about you?"

He wants me to say I dumped Prowl because of him, doesn't he? Well, I'm not going to. No way.

"Same reason." I nod. "Praxus subsidiaries."

There's a flash of amusement in Optimus's optics. "I see. And are you…ok?"

"I'm fine. Actually, I'm enjoying the freedom of being single again." I gesture widely with my arms. "You know, the liberation, the flexibility…"

"That's great. Well, then, maybe this isn't a good time to…" He stops.

"To what?" I say a little too quickly.

"I know you must be hurting right now," he says carefully. "But I was wondering." He pauses for what self like forever. My intakes gradually tighten, but I don't dare swallow. "Would you like to get a drink sometime?"

He's asked me out. He's asked me out.

I almost can't move my mouth.

"Yes," I say at last. "Yes, that would be lovely."

"Great!" He pauses. "The only thing is, my life is kind of complicated right now. And what with our office situation…It might be an idea to keep this to ourselves."

"Oh, I completely agree," I say quickly. "We should be discreet."

"So, shall we say…how about tomorrow night? Would that suit you?"

"Tomorrow night would be perfect."

"I'll come and pick you up. If you mail me your address. Eight o'clock?"

"Eight it is!"

As I leave Optimus's office, Mirage glances up questioningly, but I don't say anything. I head back to the marketing department, trying as hard as I can to keep my face dispassionate and calm. But excitement is bubbling away inside, and a huge smile keeps breaking through.

Oh, my Primus. Oh, my Primus. I'm going out for drinks with Optimus Prime. I just…I can't believe—

Oh, who am I kidding? I knew this was going to happen. As soon as I heard he didn't go back to Crystal City. I knew.

* * *

Finally, they get together!

I tried to make this one longer than the others for you guys cuz I feel really bad for the long wait.

I'd also like to point out that I'm not dissing Prowl in any way. I love Prowl very much, in fact he's one of my favorite pairings.

Anyway, thank you all for your reviews and/or for following this story,

OPG


	13. Chapter 13

**Ok firstly I'm really sorry I haven't updated in so long.**  
**I've been super busy during the summer and starting college in the fall that I just haven't found enough time for writing. I want to thank you all for sticking with this story.**

**I'll try and make this story extra long for y'all. Because y'all have been so wonderful!**

**Anyway, I hope you enjoy!**

**Sparkling - Newborn**

**Youngling – Child**

**Astrosecond – .498 seconds**

**Breem - 8.3 Earth minutes**

**Joor - About 6.5 Earth hours**

**Orn - about 13 Earth days**

**Cycle – About 3 Earth weeks**

**Stellar Cycle – About 73 Earth months**

**Vorn - About 83 Earth years**

**Can you keep a secret?**

**Chapter 13**

I have never seen Sunstreaker look so appalled.

"He knows all you _secrets?_" He's looking at me as though I've just told him I'm going out with a mass murderer. "What on cybertron do you mean?"

"I sat next to him on a shuttle, and I told him everything about myself."

I frown at my reflection in my mirror and rub a smudge off my cheek. It's seven o'clock, I've had my wash, and now I'm sitting in front of my mirror, polishing my paint.

"And now he's asked him out," says Bee, reaching for my new paint can and studying it. "Isn't it romantic?"

"You are joking, aren't you?" says Sunstreaker. "Tell me this is a joke." He's standing at the door of my room, wearing a new, bright yellow armor. Tonight he's got a date with the guy who bought the seventy-thousand credit painting.

"Of course I'm not joking! What's the problem?"

"You're going out with a mech who knows everything about you."

"Yes."

"And you're asking me what's the _problem_?" he says incredulously. "Are you _crazy_?"

"Of course I'm not crazy!"

"I _knew _you fancied him," says Bee for about the millionth time. "I knew it. Right from the moment you started talking about him." He looks at my reflection. "I'd leave that right cheek alone now."

"Really?" I peer at my face.

"Hot Rod, you don't tell mech's all about yourself! You have to keep something back! Mommy always says you should never let a mech see your feelings or the contents of your subspace."

"Well, too late. He's seen it all."

"Then it's never going to work," says Sunstreaker. "He'll never respect you."

"Yes, he will!"

"Hot Rod," says Sunstreaker in a pitying voice. "Don't you understand? You've already lost."

"I haven't _lost_!"

"You're not being very helpful, Sunstreaker," puts in Bee. "Come on. You've been on loads of dates with rich business mech's. You must have some good advice!"

"All right." Sunstreaker sighs. "It's a hopeless cause, but I'll do my best." He starts ticking off on his fingers. "The first thing is to look as well groomed as possible."

"Why do you think I'm buffering and polishing my armor?" I say with a grimace.

"Fine. Ok, the next thing is, you can show an interest in his hobbies. What does he like?"

"Er…dunno. He likes to watch the race track races. He owns all these race tracks back at his home, apparently."

"Well, then!" Sunstreaker brightens. "That's good. Pretend you like races. Suggest visiting a race track… You could flick through a race pad before you go…"

"I can't," I say, taking a sip from my pre-date relaxer cube of high grade. "I told him on the shuttle that I hate the race track."

"You did _what_?" Sunstreaker looks like he wants to hit me. "You told the mech you're dating that you have his favorite hobby?"

"I didn't know I would be going on a date with him then, did I?" I say defensively, reaching for my paints. "And anyway, it's the truth! I have the race tracks! The bots in them always look so pleased with themselves…"

"What's the _truth_ got to do with anything?" Suntreaker's voice rises in agitation. "Hot Rod, I'm sorry; I can't help you. This is a disaster. You're completely vulnerable. It's like going into battle in with your arms tied behind your back."

"Sunstreaker, this is not a battle!" I retort. "And it's not a chess game! It's dinner with a nice mech!"

"You're so cynical, Sunstreaker!" chimes in Bee. "_I _think it's really romantic! They're going to have the perfect date, because there won't be any of that awkwardness. He knows what Hot Rod likes. He knows what he's interested in. They're already compatible!"

"Well, I wash my hands of it," says Sunstreaker, still shaking his head. "What polish are you using?" His optics suddenly narrow. "Where is it?"

"My new one I got the other orn." I gesture to the cabinet next to the door, where my paints and polishing stuff are held.

Sunstreaker's optics narrows even further. He would have made a really good enforcer, I often think.

"You're not going to borrow anything of mine."

"No!" I say in indignant tones. "Honestly, Sunstreaker, I do have my own polish, you know."

"Fine. Well. Have a good time."

Bee and I wait until his footsteps have tapped down the corridor and the front door has slammed.

"Right!" I say, but Bee lifts a hand.

"Wait."

We both sit still for five breems. Suddenly there's the sound of the front door being opened very quietly.

"He's trying to catch us out," whispers Bee. "Hi!" he says, raising his voice. "Is anyone there?"

"Oh, hi," says Sunstreaker, appearing at the door of the room. "I forgot something." His optics do a quick sweep of the room.

"I don't think you'll find it in here," says Bee innocently.

"No. Well." His optics travel around the room again. "Ok. Have a nice evening."

Again his footsteps tap down the hall, and again the front door slams.

"Right!" says Bee. "Let's go."

* * *

We unpeel the tape from Sunstreaker's door, and Bee makes a little mark where it was. "Wait!" he says as I'm about to push the door open. "There's another one at the bottom."

"You should have been a spy," I say, watching him carefully peel it off.

"Ok," he says, his optics scrunched up with concentration. "There have to be some more booby traps."

"There's tape on the closet, too," I say. "And… look!" I point up. A cube of low grade is balanced on top of the door, ready to drench us if we open the door.

"That aft!" says Bee as I reach up for it. "You know, I had to spend all evening fielding calls for him the other night and he wasn't even grateful."

He waits until I've put the cube down safely, then reaches for the closet door. "Ready?"

"Ready."

Bee takes a deep intake, then opens the door. Immediately a loud, piercing siren begins to wail. "_Wee-oo wee-oo wee-oo…_"

"Frag!" he says, banging the door shut. "Frag! How did he do that?"

"It's still going! Make it stop! Make it stop!"

"I don't know how to! You probably need a special code!"

We're both jabbing at the door, patting it, searching for an off switch.

"I can't see a button or a switch or anything…"

Abruptly the noise stops, and we both stare at each other panting.

"Actually," says Bee after a long pause. "Acutally, I think that might have been an enforcer's siren outside."

"Oh," I say. "Oh, right. Yes, maybe it was."

Looking a bit sheepish, Bee reaches for the door again- and this time it's silent. "Ok," he says. "Here goes."

"Wow," we breathe as one as he swings the closet door open.

Sunstreaker's closet is like a treasure chest. New, shiny, gorgeous paints, all neatly lined up on shelves. All polishes are carefully categorized on the opposite side from the paints. Brushes, buffers, rags, etc. all neatly lined up on the back wall. It's been awhile since I've borrowed anything from Sunstreaker, but every single item seems to have changed since then.

"He must spend about an joor a orn keeping this tidy," I say, thinking of the jumble that's in my own closet.

"He does," says Bee. "I've seen him."

Mind you, Bee is even worse. He has all these good intentions—but when he's working hard on a case, his closet basically ends up being a chair in his room, on which all his paints and polishes get heaped.

"So!" says Bee with a grin, and reaches for a red sparkly paint can. "What would the gentlemech like this evening?"

* * *

I don't put the red sparkly paint on. But I did sample it. In fact, we both sampled on quite a lot of stuff, and then have to put it all back, very carefully. At one point another enforcer's siren goes off outside, and we both jump in terror, then immediately pretend we weren't fazed.

In the end, I go for this amazing new paint that just came out. I apply the red, orange, and yellow paint and the top it off with a glossy finish. Bee carefully helps me apply this new scented polish. By the time I'm done I feel like a new mech.

"You look amazing!" says Bee as I do a little twirl. "Completely fab!"

"Do I look too much?"

"Of course not! Come on—you're going out to dinner with a multimillionaire!"

"Don't _say_ that!" I exclaim, feeling a clutch of nerves. I look at my watch. It's almost eight o'clock.

Oh, Primus. In the fun of getting ready, I'd almost forgotten what it was all for.

Keep calm, I tell myself. It's just dinner. That's all it is. Nothing out of the—

"Frag!" Bee's looking out the window in the living room. "Frag! There's a great big car outside!"

"What? Where?" I hurry to join him. As I follow his gaze, I almost can't breathe.

An enormous, sleek limo is waiting outside out house. I mean _enormous._ It's all silver and shiny and looks incredibly conspicuous in out tiny little street. In fact, I can see some curious neighbors looking out of the house opposite.

What am I doing? This is a world I know nothing about. When we were sitting in the shuttle, Optimus and I were just two bots on an equal level. But now, look at the world he lives in—look at the world I live in. Primus, he came in a fragging limo! I've never ridden in one before. Limos are usually used by the wealthiest bots.

"Bee," I say in a tiny voice. "I don't want to go."

"Yes, you do!" says Bee—but I can see he's just as freaked out as I am.

The buzzer goes, and we both jump.

I feel like I might purge.

Ok. Ok. Here I go. "Hi," I say into the intercom. "I'll…I'll be right down." I turn around and look at Bee.

"Well," I say. "This is it!"

"Hot Rod." Bee grabs my hand. "Before you go. Don't take any notice of what Sunstreaker said. Just have a lovely time." He hugs me tightly. "Call me if you get a chance!"

"I will!"

I take one last look at myself in the mirror, then make my way down the stairs.

I open the front door, and Optimus is standing there with a fresh coat of paint. He's polished himself too. He looks tidy. For an instant, I feel even more nervous.

Then he smiles—and all my fears fly away. Sunstreaker's wrong. This isn't me against him. This is me _with _him.

"Hi," he says. "You look…you look lovely."

"Thanks."

I reach for the door handle, but a mech rushes forward to open it for me.

"Silly me!" I say with a nervous laugh.

I can't quite believe I'm getting into a limo. Me. Hot Rod. I feel like a millionaire. I feel like a star.

I sit down on the plushy seat, trying not to think how different this if to be _riding_ in a car, not driving myself. This is the first time, ever.

"Are you ok?" says Optimus.

"Yes! I'm fine!" My voice is a little squeaky.

"Hot Rod," says Optimus. "We're going to have fun. I promise. Did you have your pre-date sweet coolant highgrade?"

How did he know—

Oh, yes. I told him on the plane. "Yes I did, actually," I admit.

"Would you like some more?" He opens the bar, and I see a cube of my favorite sweet coolant highgrade sitting right there on a silver platter.

"Did you get that especially for me?" I say in disbelief.

"No, it's my favorite tipple." His expression is so deadpan, I can't help laughing.

"I'll join you," he says as he hands me a cube. "I've never tasted this before." He picks up a cube himself, takes a sip, and splutters. "Are you serious?"

"It's yummy! It tastes like happiness!"

"It tastes like…" He shakes his helm. "I don't even want to tell you what it tastes like. I'll stick to oiled coolant, if you don't mind."

"You're missing out." I take another sip and grin happily at him.

I'm completely relaxed already.

This is going to be the perfect date.

* * *

**Ok so I was originally going to end here, but since it's been FOREVER since I've last updated, I'll keep going.**

* * *

We arrive at a restaurant that I've never been to before. It's so completely high-class, whyever would I?

"It's kind of a small place," Optimus murmurs as we walk through a pillared courtyard. "Not many people know about it. But the energon is fantastic."

"Mr. Prime. Mr. Hot Rod," says a mech with sleek black armor, appearing out of nowhere. "Please come this way."

They know my name? Cool.

We glide past more pillars into a softly lit room decorated with huge abstract paintings, candles burning in alcoves, and only a few linen-covered tables. Three other couples are already seated. All the femmes have crystals flashing on their armor.

"This is so not my world," I mutter nervously to Optimus.

At once he stops. He turns to me, his face serious, while the waiter hovers. "Hot Rod." His voice is low, but distinct. "You are here, having dinner. This is as much your world as any other. Ok?" He meets my optics as though issuing a command, and I feel a ripple of pleasure.

"Ok."

There's a couple to our right, and as we walk past, a middle-aged femme with platinum and gold armor suddenly catches my optics.

"Well, hello!" she says. "Rodimus!"

"What?" I halt, bewildered. Is she looking at me?

She gets up from her seat, makes her way over, and plats a kiss on my cheek before I can react. "How are you, darling? We haven't seen you for ages!"

"Not your world, huh?" says Optimus in my ear.

You can smell the highgrade on her breath from across the room. And as I glance over at her dinner partner, he looks just as bad.

"I think you've made a mistake," I say politely. "I'm not Rodimus."

"Oh!" The femme frowns for a moment. Then she glances at Optimus, and her face snaps to understanding. "Oh! Oh, I see. Of course you're not." She gives me a little wink.

"No!" I say in horror. "You don't understand. I'm _really_ not Rodimus. I'm Hot Rod!"

"Hot Rod! Of course!" She nods conspiratorially. "Well, have a wonderful dinner! And call me sometime!"

As she stumbles back to her chair, Optimus gives me an inquiring look. "Is there something you want to tell me?"

"Yes," I say, trying to keep a straight face. "That femme is extremely drunk."

"Aha." Optimus nods with a small smile. "So, shall we sit down? Or do you have any more long-lost friends you'd like to greet?"

"No…I think that's probably it."

"If you're sure," says Optimus. "Take your time. You're sure that elderly gentlemech over there isn't your grandfather?"

I feel a laugh rising and quell it. This is a really classy restaurant. I have to behave with decorum.

We're shown to a table in the corner. A waiter helps me into my chair and fluffs my napkin over my knee, while another pours out some mid-grade and yet another offers me an energon roll. Exactly the same is happening on Optimus's side of the table. We have six bots dancing attendance on us! I want to catch Optimus's optics and laugh, but he looks unconcerned, like this is perfectly normal.

Perhaps it _is_ normal for him, it suddenly strike me. Oh, Primus. Perhaps he has a butler who makes him hot energon and irons his newspads every day.

But what if he does? I mustn't let any of this faze me.

"Actually, my grandpa never comes to Praxus if he can help it," I say, and give Optimus a teasing look. "He thinks it's too full of Crystal City bot's these orns."

"He's absolutely right," replies Optimus without a flicker. "Would this be the grandpa who like Praxus bars? Who taught you to drive?"

"That's the one," I say, watching as a waiter adjust the organic flowers in our vase. "Do you have a grandpa? Any grandparents?"

"All dead, I'm afraid."

There's a pause. I'm waiting for Optimus to add something else. Some detail or other. But…he doesn't.

Well, maybe he doesn't like talking about his grandparents.

"So!" I say as the waiting staff melt away. "What shall we have to drink?" I've already eyed up the drink that that gold femme has. It's all pink and has shaved slices of crusted energon decorating the cube, and looks absolutely delicious.

"Already taken care of," says Optimus with a smile as one of the waiters brings over a bottle of highgrade, pops it open, and starts pouring. "I remember you telling me on the shuttle, your perfect date would start off with a bottle of highgrade appearing at your table as if by magic."

"Oh," I say, quelling a tiny feeling of disappointment. "Er, yes! So I did."

"Cheers," says Optimus, and lightly clinks my cube.

"Cheers." I take a sip, and it's delicious highgrade. It really is.

I wonder what the crusted energon drink tastes like.

Stop it. Classy highgrade is perfect. "The first time I ever had high grade was when I was six vorns old—" I begin.

"At you aunt Breaker's," says Optimus. "You took all your armor off and threw them in the pond."

"Oh, right." I say, halted mid-track. "Yes, I've told you, haven't I?"

So I won't bore him with that anecdote again. I sip my highgrade and quickly try to think of something else to say. Something that he doesn't already know.

_Is_ there anything?

"I've chosen a very special menu, which I think you'll like," Optimus says, taking a sip of his highgrade. "All preordered, just for you."

"Wow!" I say, taken aback. "How…wonderful!"

A meal specially preordered for me! That's incredible.

Except…choosing your food is half the fun of eating out, isn't it? It's almost my favorite bit.

Anyway. It doesn't matter. It'll be perfect. It _is_ perfect.

"Um, so…what do you like doing in your spare time?" I ask.

Optimus considers for a moment. "I hang out. I watch the races. I fix my model cars…"

"You have a model collection of vintage cars!" I exclaim. "That's right. I really, um…"

"You hate vintage cars." He looks amused. "I remember."

Frag. I was hoping he might have forgotten. "I don't hate the cars themselves!" I say quickly. "I hate the bots that…that…"

Frag. That didn't quite come out right. I take a quick gulp of highgrade, but it goes down the wrong way and I start coughing. Oh, Primus. I'm really spluttering. My optics are tearing .

And now the other six bots in the room have all turned to stare.

"Are you ok?" says Optimus in alarm. "Have some mid-grade. You like Evian, right?"

"Er, yes. Thanks."

Oh, fragging pit. I hate to admit that Sunstreaker could be right about anything. But it would have been a lot easier if I could just have said. "Oh, I adore vintage cars!"

Anyway. Never mind.

As I'm gulping my mid-grade, a plate of roasted energon treats somehow materializes in front of me. "I love roasted energon!" I exclaim in delight.

"I remembered." Optimus looks rather proud of himself. "You said on the shuttle that your favorite energon food was roasted energon."

"Did I?" I say in surprise.

"So I called the restaurant and had them make it specially for you. Roasted energon disagree with me," Optimus adds as a plate of crusted energon and rust sticks drizzled in coolant appears in front of him, "otherwise, I would join you."

I gape at his plate. Oh, my Primus. Those rust sticks look amazing. I _adore_ rust sticks.

"Enjoy!" says Optimus cheerfully.

"Er, yes!"

I take a bite of my roasted energon. It's delicious. And it was very thoughtful of him to remember.

But…I can't help eyeing his rust sticks and crusted energon. They're making my tanks rumble with longing.

"Would you like a bite?" says Optimus, following my gaze.

"No!" I say, jumping. "No, thanks! This energon is absolutely…perfect!" I beam at him and take another huge bite.

Suddenly Optimus claps a hand on the side of his helm. "My comm," he says. "Hot Rod…would you mind if I took this? It could be something important."

* * *

When he's gone, I just can't help myself. I reach over and sneak one of his rust sticks. I close my optics as I chew it, letting the flavor flood through my mouth. That is just divine. That is the best energon I've ever tasted in my life. I'm just wondering whether I could get away with eating some crusted energon if I shifted the others around his plate a bit, when I smell of whiff of intoxication highgrade. The femme in the gold and platinum armor is right by my ear.

"Tell me quickly!" she says. "What's going on?"

"We're…having dinner."

"I can see that!" she says impatiently. "But what about Sleeker? Does he have any idea?"

"Look. I'm not who you think I am—"

"I can see that! I would never have thought you had this in you!" The femme squeezes my arm. "Well, good for you! Have some fun—that's what I say! You took your bonding bands off," she adds, glancing at my left hand. "Smart mech…oops! He's coming! I'd better go!"

She moves away as Optimus sits back down in his place, and I lean forward, already half giggling. Optimus is going to love this.

"Guess what!" I say. "I have a bondmate named Sleeker! My friend over there just came over and told me. So, what do you reckon? Has Sleeker been having a dalliance, too?"

There's silence, and Optimus looks up, a strained expression on his face. "I'm sorry?" he says.

He didn't hear a word I said.

I can't say the whole thing again. I'll just feel stupid. In fact…I already feel stupid. "It…doesn't matter."

There's another silence, and I cast around for something to say. "So, um, I have a confession to make," I say, gesturing to his plate. "I pinched on of your rust sticks."

I wait for him to pretend to be shocked, or angry. Or _anything_.

"That's ok," he says, and begins to fork the rest of them into his mouth.

I don't understand. What happened?

By the time we've finished our next course, my entire body is tense with misery. This date is a disaster. A complete disaster. I've made every effort possible to chat, and the rest of the time he's been all broody and distracted, and to be honest, I might as well not be here.

I feel like crying with disappointment. We were getting on so well. What went wrong?

"I'll…just go and freshen up," I say as our main-course plates are removed, and Optimus simply nods.

The washroom is like a palace, with spotlit mirrors, dressing tables, plushy chairs, and a mech to give you a rag. For a moment I feel a bit shy, comming Bee in front of him—but he must have seen it all before, hasn't he?

"Hi," I say as Bee picks up. "It's me."

"Hot Rod! How's it going?"

"It's awful."

"What do you mean?" he says in horror. "How can it be awful? What's happened?"

"That's the worst thing!" I slump into a chair. "It all started off brilliantly. We were laughing and joking, and the restaurant's amazing, and he'd ordered this special menu just for me, all full of my favorite things…"

I swallow hard. Now that I put it like that, it does all sound pretty perfect.

"It sounds wonderful!" says Bee in astonishment. "So, how come—"

"So then he had this call on his comm." I grab the rag that the nice mech is sympathetically handing out to me and wipe my optics. "And ever since, he's barely said a word to me! He keeps disappearing off to take comm's, and I'm left on my own, and when he comes back, the conversation's all strained and stilted, and he's obviously only half paying attention."

"Maybe he's worried about something, but he doesn't want to burden you with it," says Bee after a pause.

"That's true," I say slowly. "He does look pretty hassled."

"Maybe something awful has happened, but he doesn't want to ruin the mood. Just try talking to him."

"Ok," I say, feeling more cheerful. "Ok, I'll try that. Thanks, Bee."

* * *

I walk back to the table, feeling slightly more positive. A waiter materializes to help me with my chair, and as I sit down I give Optimus the warmest, most sympathetic look I can muster. "Optimus, is everything ok?"

He frowns. "Why do you say that?"

"Well…you keep disappearing off. I just wondered if there was anything…you wanted to talk about."

"It's fine," he says curtly. "Thanks." His tone is very much 'subject closed,' but I'm not going to give up that easily.

"Have you had some bad news?"

"No."

"Is it…a business thing?" I persist. "Or…or is it some kind of personal…"

Optimus looks up, a flash of anger on his face. "I said it's nothing. Quit it."

That puts me in my place, doesn't it?

"Would you both care for dessert?" A waiter's voice interrupts me, and I smile as best as I can.

"Actually, I don't think so." I've had enough of this evening. I want to go home.

"Very well. Any hot energon?"

"He does want dessert," says Optimus over my helm.

What? _What_ did he just say? The waiter looks at me in hesitation.

"No, I don't!"

"Come on, Hot Rod," says Optimus, and suddenly his warm, teasing tone is back. "You don't have to pretend with me. You told me on the shuttle, this is what you always say. You say you don't want dessert, when really you do."

"Well, this time I really don't!"

"It's specially created for you." Optimus leans forward. "Frozen energon, energon shavings, coolant sauce on the side…"

I feel completely patronized. How does he know what I want? Maybe I just want hard-crusted energon. Maybe I want nothing. "I'm not hungry." I push my chair back.

"Hot Rod, I know you. You want it, really—"

"You _don't_ know me!" I cry angrily before I can stop myself. "Optimus, you may know a whole load of random facts about me. But that doesn't mean you know me!"

"What?"

"If you knew me, you would have realized that when I go out to dinner with someone, I like them to listen to what I'm saying. I like them to treat me with a bit of respect, and not tell them to 'quit it' when al they're doing is trying to make conversation…"

Optimus looks totally astonished.

"Hot Rod, are you ok?"

"No. I'm not ok! You've practically ignored me all evening."

"That's not fair."

"You have! You've been on autopilot. Ever since your comm started going…"

"Look." Optimus sighs, thrusting his fingers across his helm. "A few things are going on in my life at the moment. They're very important—"

"Fine. Well, let them go on without me."

Tears are stinging my optics as I stand up. I so wanted this to be a perfect evening. I had such high hopes.

"That's right! You tell him!" the femme in gold supportively calls across the room. "You know, this mech's got a lovely bondmate of her own!" she exclaims to Optimus. "He doesn't need you!"

"Thank you for dinner," I say, gazing fixedly on the tablecloth as one of the waiter's magically appears at my side ready to escort me out.

"Hot Rod," says Optimus, getting to his feet in disbelief. "You're not seriously going."

"I am."

"Give it another chance. Please. Stay and have some hot energon. I promise I'll talk—"

"I don't want any hot energon," I say as the waiter patiently waits for me.

"Mint energon, then. Energon sticks! I ordered a box of Prima energon sticks specially…" His tone is entreating, and just for an instant I waver. I love Prima sticks.

No, I've made up my processor. "I don't care. I'm going. Thank you very much," I add to the waiter. "How did you know I wanted to leave?"

"We make it our business to know," says the waiter discreetly.

"You see?" I say to Optimus. "_They_ know me."

There's an instant of silence.

"Fine," says Optimus at last in resignation. "Fine. Dodger will take you home. He should be waiting outside in the car—"

"I'm not going home in your car! I'll make my own way, thanks."

"Hot Rod, don't be stupid—"

"Good-bye. And thanks very much," I add to the waiter. "You were all very attentive and nice to me."

I hurry out of the restaurant to discover it's started to rain acid. And I don't have an umbrella.

Well, I don't care. I stride along the streets, skidding slightly on the wet street, feeling raindrops mingling with tears on my face. I have no idea where I am. I don't even think I should be driving in my state. I don't even know where the nearest bus station is or where…

Hang on. There's a bus stop.

Well, fine. I'll take the bus home. And then I'll have a nice cup of hot energon by myself. And maybe some frozen energon in front of the television.

It's one of those bus shelters with a roof and little seats, and I sit down, thanking Primus, my armor won't get any more acid on it.

What happened? Did I do something wrong? Did I break some rule I wasn't even aware of? One breem everything's great. The next, it's a disaster. It doesn't make any sense. My processor is running back and forth, trying to work it out, trying to pinpoint the exact moment when things started going wrong, when a big silver car purrs up at the pavement.

I don't believe it.

"Please," says Optimus, getting out. "Let me take you home."

"No," I say without turning my helm.

"You can't stand here in the rain."

"Yes, I can! Some of us live in the real world, you know." What does he think? That I'll meekly say 'Thank you!' and get in? That just because he's got a fancy limo he can behave how he likes?

I turn away and pretend to be studying a poster. The next moment Optimus has arrived in the bus shelter. He sits down in the little seat next to mine, and for a while we're both silent.

"I know I was terrible company this evening," he says eventually. "And I'm sorry. And I'm also sorry I can't tell you anything about it. But my life is…complicated. And some bits of it are very delicate. Do you understand?"

No, I want to say. No, I don't understand, when I've told you every single, little thing about me.

"I suppose," I say at last.

The acid rain is beating down even harder, thundering on the roof of the shelter and creeping into my armor. Primus, I hope it won't stain it.

"I'm sorry the evening was a disappointment to you," says Optimus, lifting his voice above the noise.

"It wasn't," I say, suddenly feeling bad. "I just…I had such high hopes! I wanted to get to know you a bit…and I wanted to have fun…and for us to laugh…and I wanted one of those pink cocktails, not highgrade…"

Frag. _Frag._ That slipped out before I could stop it.

"But…you like highgrade!" says Optimus, looking stunned. "You told me. Your perfect date would start off with highgrade."

I can't quite meet his optics. "Yes, well. I didn't know about the pink cocktails then, did I?"

Optimus throws back his helm and laughs. "Fair point. Very fair point. And I didn't even give you a choice, did I?" He shakes his helm ruefully. "You were probably sitting there thinking, 'Frag this guy. Can't he tell I want a pink cocktail?'"

"No!" I say at once, but my cheeks are turning crimson, and Optimus is looking at me with such a comical expression, I want to hug him.

"Oh, Hot Rod. I'm sorry." He shakes his helm. "I wanted to get to know you, too. And I wanted to have fun, too. It sounds like we both wanted the same things. And it's my fault we didn't get them."

"It's not _your_ fault—" I mumble.

"This is not the way I planned for things to go." He looks at me seriously. "Will you give me another chance? Tomorrow night?"

A big red bus rumbles up to the bus stop, and we both look up.

"I've got to go," I say, standing up. "This is my bus."

"Hot Rod, don't be silly. Come in the car."

I feel a flicker of temptation. The car will be warm and cozy and comfortable.

But something deeper inside me resists it. I want to show Optimus that I was serious. That I didn't come running out here expecting him to follow me.

"I'm going on the bus."

The automatic doors open, and I step onto the bus. I show my travel card to the driver and he nods.

"You're seriously considering riding on this thing?" says Optimus, stepping on behind me. He peers dubiously at the usual motley collection of night bus riders. A mech with bulbous optics looks up at us and hunches his plastic hood over his head. "Is this _safe_?"

"You sound like my grandpa! Of course it's safe. It goes to the end of my road."

"Hurry up!" says the driver impatiently to Optimus. "If you haven't got the credits, get off."

"I have Crystal City Express…" says Optimus, feeling in his subspace.

"You can't pay a bus fare with Crystal City Express!" I say. "Don't you know anything? And anyway"—I stare at my travel card for a few seconds—"I think maybe we should call it an evening. I'm pretty tired."

I'm not really tired. But somehow I want to be alone. I want to clear my helm and start again.

"I see," says Optimus in a more serious voice. "I guess I'd better get off," he says to the driver. Then he looks at me. "You haven't answered me. Can we try again? Tomorrow night. And this time we'll do whatever you want. You call the shots."

"Ok." I try to sound noncommittal, but as I meet his optics, I find myself smiling, too. "Tomorrow.

"Eight o'clock again?"

"Eight o'clock. And leave the limo behind," I add firmly. "We'll do things my way."

"Great! I look forward to it. Good night, Hot Rod."

"Good night."

* * *

As he turns to get off, I climb the stairs to the top deck of the bus. I head for the front seat, the place I always used to sit when I was a youngling, and look out at the dark, rainy Praxus night. If I gaze for long enough, the streetlights become blurred. Like a dreamland.

That date was nothing like I expected it to be.

Not that I knew what to expect. But I did have the odd imaginary scenario in my processor, ranging from dreadful (he doesn't turn up; it turns out he's a murderous assassin) to fantastic (we end up making love on a speedboat on the river and he asks me to bond with him. Actually I think that one might have been a dream).

The real thing was somehow better and worse, all at once. I wasn't expecting to storm out. I wasn't expecting to cry. I wasn't expecting Optimus to have made such an effort.

Swooshing around my processor are images of the femme in gold, the pink cocktail, Optimus's expression as I said I was leaving, the waiter waiting to escort me out, Optimus's limo arriving at the bus stop. Everything's jumbled up. I can't quite straighten my thoughts. All I can do is sit there, aware of familiar, comforting sounds to me. The old-fashioned grind and roar of the bus engine. The noise of the doors swishing open and shut. The sharp ring of the request bell. Bots thumping up the stairs and thumping back down again.

I can feel the bus swaying as we turn corners, but I'm barely even aware of where we're going. Until after a while, I start to take in familiar sights outside, and I realize we're nearly at my street. I gather myself and totter along to the top of the stairs.

Suddenly the bus makes a sharp swing left, and I grab for a seat handle, trying to steady myself. Why are we turning left? I look out of the window, thinking I'll be really fragged off if I end up having to walk, and blink in astonishment.

We're in my tiny little road.

And now we've stopped outside my house.

I hurry down the stairs, nearly breaking my leg.

"Forty-one ElmMetal Road," the drivers sways with a flourish.

No. This can't be happening.

I look around the bus in bewilderment, and a couple of drunk younglings leer at me.

"What's going on?" I look at the driver. "Did he _pay_ you?"

"Five hundred credits," says the driver, and winks at me. "Whoever he is, love, I'd hold on to him."

Five hundred credits? "Thanks," I manage. "I mean…thanks for the ride."

Feeling as though I'm in a dream, I get off the bus and head for the front door. But Bee has already go there and is opening it. He looks totally mystified.

"What on cybertron's a _bus_ doing here?"

"It's my bus," I say. "It took me home."

I wave to the driver, who waves back, and the bus rumbles off into the night.

* * *

**OMG! Finally finished! This took forever! But it was worth it :D**

**I really hope y'all enjoyed it, because my hands are really tired now.**

**So let me know what y'all think. But only nice comments please, I don't think I can handle criticism right now.**

**If there's grammer problems...well it's been awhile, try and ignore it...if it really bothers you then stop reading if you want. My feelings won't be hurt...as long as you don't tell me :)**

**Anyway, thanks for reading!**


	14. Chapter 14

Here is the next chapter!

I wanted to get a new chapter up because I know before I posted the last chapter, it was a couple months were nothing was posted.

So it's a little bit shorter than the other chapters but I hope you all enjoy it!

Sparkling - Newborn

Youngling – Child

Astrosecond – .498 seconds

Breem - 8.3 Earth minutes

Joor - About 6.5 Earth hours

Orn - about 13 Earth days

Cycle – About 3 Earth weeks

Stellar Cycle – About 73 Earth months

Vorn - About 83 Earth years

I want to thank Ayami1 for being my betareader starting with Chapter 14 so...

Thank you! :)

And enjoy!

Can you keep a secret?

Chapter 14

_Ok. Don't tell anyone. Do not tell anyone that you were on a date with Optimus Prime last night._

Arriving at work the next day, I felt almost convinced I was going to blurt it out by mistake. Or some bot was going to guess. I mean, surely it must be obvious; from my face, my paint, the way I'm walking. I felt as though everything I did screamed "Hey, guess what I did last night?"

"Hiya," Trailbreaker greeted as I got myself a cube of energon. "How are you?"

"I'm fine, thanks!" I said, giving a guilty jump. "I just had a quiet evening in last night. With my roommate. We watched TV last night. Just the two of us. No one else."

"Right!" Trailbreaker said, looking a bit bemused. "Er, lovely!"

_I'm losing it. Everyone knows this is how criminals get caught. They add too many details and trip themselves up._

_Right, no more babbling._

"Hi," Cliffjumper said as I sit down at my desk.

"Hi," I replied, forcing myself to keep it at that. I won't even mention what kind of energon Bee and I made, even though I've got a whole story ready about how Bee added a little too much coolant to the mix, haha, what a mix-up.

I was supposed to be working on a credit-off flyer for Praxus Prime this morning; but instead, I find myself taking out a pad and starting a list of possible date venues where I can take Optimus tonight.

1. Bar? _No. Far too boring._

2. Movie? _No. Too much sitting, not talking to each other._

3. Driving? _Optimus and I will glide around to the radio in seamless harmony… No. Still not enough talking. Too impersonal._

4. …

_I ran out of ideas already. How fragged up is that?_

Suddenly I had a thought. I read this article on marketing innovation last stellar cycle that said if your processor was blank, you should write keywords like SUCCESS and CUSTOMER and DESIRES on a pad and wait for them to stimulate your processor.

Thinking for a bit, I write down: OPTIMUS, DATE, ROMANCE, KISS. I gaze at the words, trying to focus, but it was hard to concentrate when my processor is half tuning in to the idle conversation going on around me.

"…really working on some secret project, or is that just a rumor?"

"…company in a new direction, apparently, but no one knows exactly what he's…"

"…_is_ the Mirage guy anyway? I mean, what function does he have?"

"He's Optimus' bodyguard, isn't he?" says someone.

That's it. That's exactly what Mirage looks like. A bodyguard. Or an assassin. Maybe he's in charge of 'dealing' with Optimus' competitors.

"He's with Optimus, isn't he?" Arcee imputed. She worked in Finance but likes Springer, so she's always finding excuses to come into our office. "He must be Optimus' lover."

"What?" I said, sitting up suddenly and snapping the edge of my pad. Luckily everyone was too busy gossiping to notice.

_Optimus' lover? Optimus' lover! That's why he didn't kiss me good night. He only wants me to be a friend. He'll introduce me to Mirage and I'll have to pretend to be all cool with it, like I knew all along—_

"How do you know?" Trailbreaker questioned with astonishment.

"I just assumed he was," replied Arcee with a shrug. "There's no other bot on the scene—"

"But they don't even look good together!"

"I don't think they're lovers!" I chipped in, trying to sound lighthearted and just vaguely interested.

"They're not," chimed Cliffjumper's authoritative voice. "I read an old profile of him in _Newsweek_, and he was dating this femme president of Origin Software. It said before that he went out with some supermodel. But he broke up with them ages ago."

A huge surge of relief flooded through me.

Obviously I knew he didn't already have a lover.

"So, is Optimus seeing anyone at the moment?"

"Who knows?"

"He's pretty sexy, don't you think?" Trailbreaker purred with a wicked grin. "I wouldn't mind."

"Yeah, right," shot Springer. "You probably wouldn't mind his limo, either."

"Apparently, he hasn't had a relationship since Alpha Trion died," Cliffjumper stated crisply. "So I doubt you've got much of a chance."

"Bad luck, Trailbreaker," laughed Springer.

Just for an instant, I found myself imagining what would happen if I stood up and said, 'Actually, I had dinner with Optimus Prime last night.' They'd all be utterly dumbfounded. There'd be gasps, and questions…

_Oh, who am I kidding? They wouldn't believe me, would they? They'd say I was suffering from delusions._

"Hi, Prowl," came Trailbreaker's voice, interrupting my thoughts.

_Prowl_? I look up and there he was, with no warning, approaching my desk.

_What's he doing here? Has he found out about me and Optimus?_

I scratched the back of my helm, feeling nervous. I've spotted him a couple of times around the building, but this is our first moment face-to-face since we broke up.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi," I reply awkwardly; then there was silence.

Suddenly I notice my unfinished list of date ideas lying on my desk, with KISS clearly visible. _Frag. _Trying to stay casual, I reached for the pad, turned it off, and dropped it in my drawer.

Around us, all the gossip about Mirage and Optimus had petered out. I knew everyone in the office was listening to us, even if they were pretending to be doing something else. It's like we're a real-life drama on TV.

And I knew which character I am. I'm the heartless fragger who chucked his lovely, decent, mech for no good reason.

The thing is, I do feel guilty. Every time I see Prowl, or even think about him, I get a horrible tight feeling in my spark. But does he _have_ to have such an expression of injured dignity on his face? A kind of you've-mortally-wounded-me-but-I'm-such-a-good-bot-I-forgive-you kind of look.

I can feel my guilt ebbing away and annoyance starting to rise.

"I only came up," started Prowl at last, "because I'd put us down to do a stint on the Primm's stall together at the corporate family day. Obviously when I did so, I thought we'd be—" He broke off, looking more martyred than ever. "Anyway; but I don't mind going through it. If you don't."

I'm not going to be the one to say I can't bear to stand next to him for half a joor. "I don't mind!" I say.

"Fine."

"Fine."

There's another awkward pause.

"I found your white paint, by the way," I say. "I'll bring it in."

"Thanks. I think I've got some stuff of yours, too…"

"Hey," said Springer, coming over toward us with a wicked, optics-gleaming, let's-stir-shit expression. "I saw you with someone last night."

I feel a spasm of terror. _Frag! Frag, Frag. Ok…ok…its ok. He's not looking at me. He's looking at Prowl._

_Who in the pit was Prowl with?_

"That was just a friend," said Prowl stiffly.

"Are you sure?" Springer teased. "You looked pretty friendly to me—"

"Shut up, Springer," Prowl snapped, looking pained. "It's far too early to be thinking of…moving on. Isn't it, Hot Rod?"

"Er, yes." I swallowed several times. "Absolutely. Definitely."

_Oh, Primus._

* * *

I wasn't going to worry about Prowl. I had an important date to think about. And thank goodness, by the end of the day I had at last come up with the perfect venue. It only took me about half a joor to persuade Bee that when they said, 'The key shall in no circumstances be transferred to any nonmember' in the rules, they didn't really mean it.

At last he reached into his subspace and handed it to me, an anxious expression on his face. "Don't lose it!"

"I won't! Thanks, Bee." I exclaimed as I gave him a hug.

"You remember the password, don't you?"

"Yes. 'Beatdown.'"

"Where are you going?" asked Sunstreaker, coming into my room. He gives me a critical look. "Nice polish. Where's it from?"

"Oxfam. I mean Whittles."

I decided tonight I'm not even going to _try _to borrow anything from Sunstreaker. I'm going to paint my armor with my regular red, orange, and yellow paints, and if Optimus doesn't like it, he can shove it.

"I was meaning to ask," Sunstreaker optics narrowing. "You two didn't go into my room last night, did you?"

"No," Bee replied innocently. "Why—did it look like we had?"

Sunstreaker was out until three last night, and by the time he got back, everything was back in place. Tape and all. We couldn't have been more careful.

"No," admits Sunstreaker. "Nothing was out of place. But I just got a _feeling_. As though someone had been in there."

"Did you leave the window open?" asked Bee. "Because I read this article recently, about how cyber-monkeys are being sent into houses to steal things."

"_Cyber-monkeys?_"

"Apparently. The thieves train them."

Sunstreaker looks from Bee to me, perplexed, and I forced myself to keep a straight face.

"Anyway," I said to change the subject. "You might like to know that you were wrong about Optimus. I'm going out with him again tonight! It wasn't a disastrous date at all!"

There's no need to add that we had a big fight and I stormed out and he had to follow me to the bus stop; because the point was, we're having a second date.

"I wasn't wrong," said Sunstreaker. "You just wait. I predict doom." He glanced at himself in the mirror and brushed an invisible speck of dust off his shoulder.

"Nice paints," commented Bee. "First date?"

"Yes. Well, bye. See you later." Sunstreaker glanced at himself one more time in the mirror then left the room. I pulled a face at his skinny back and start putting the finishing touches on my flame-covered chest.

Honestly. Doom. He's just _trying_ to ruin things.

"What's the time?" I asked, frowning in concentration as I look at my armor in the mirror.

"Ten to eight," answered Bee. "How are you going to get there?"

"Driving."

Suddenly the buzzer goes off, and we both look up.

"He's early," Bee stated just as surprised as I was. "That's a bit weird."

"He can't be early!" We both hurried into the living room and Bee gets to the window first.

"Oh, frag," he said, looking down to the street below. "It's Prowl."

"_Prowl?_" I stared at him in horror. "Prowl's here?"

"He's holding a box of stuff. Shall I buzz him up?"

"No! Pretend we're not in!"

"Too late," Bee sighed, and pulls a face. "Sorry. He's seen me."

The buzzer sounds again, and we exchange helpless looks.

"Ok," I said at last. "I'm going down."

_Frag, frag, frag…_

I pelt downstairs and open the door. And there, standing on the doorstep, is Prowl, wearing the same martyred expression he had at the office.

"Hi," he said. "Here are the things I was telling you about. I thought you might need them."

"Er, thanks," I said, grabbing the box, which seems to contain one bottle of polish and some paints I've never seen in my life. "I haven't quite sorted out your stuff yet, so I'll bring it to the office, ok?"

I dumped the box on the stairs, and quickly turned back before Prowl thinks I'm inviting him in.

"So, um, thanks. It was really good of you to stop by."

"No problem," Prowl replied. He gives a heavy sigh. "Hot Rod… I was thinking perhaps we could use this as an opportunity to talk. Maybe we could have a drink…"

"Gosh," I stated. "I'd love that. I really would. But to be honest, now isn't the _best_ time…"

"Are you going out?" His face falls.

"Um, yes. With Bee." I glanced at my internal clock. Its six breems to eight. "So anyway, I'll see you soon. You know, around the office…"

"Why are you so flustered?"

"I'm not flustered!" I shot hastily before leaning casually against the door frame.

"What's wrong?" His optics narrow and he looks past me into the hall. "Is something going on?"

"Prowl." I put a reassuring hand on his arm. "Nothing's going on. You're imagining things."

At that moment, Bee appeared behind me at the door. "Um, Hot Rod, there's a very urgent call for you," he said in a really stilted voice. "You'd better come straightaway… Oh, hello, Prowl!"

The trouble is, Bee is the worst liar in the world.

"You're trying to get rid of me!" said Prowl, looking from Bee to me in shock.

"No, we're not!" defended Bee, flushing bright red.

"Hang on," stopped Prowl suddenly, staring at my freshly painted armor. "Hang on a breem. I don't… Are you going on a … date?"

My processor worked quickly. If I denied it, we'll probably get into some huge argument. But if I admit the truth… maybe he'll storm off in a huff! "You're right," I admitted. "I've got a date."

There's a shocked silence.

"I don't believe this," said Prowl, shaking his helm, and to my dismay, descended heavily down onto the steps. I glance at my internal watch. Three breems to eight. Frag.

"Prowl—"

"You told me there wasn't anyone else! You promised, Hot Rod!"

"There wasn't! But… there is now. And he'll be here soon… Prowl, you really don't want to get into this." I grabbed his arm and try to lift him, but he weighs a lot more than I thought he did. "Prowl, please. Don't make this more painful for everyone."

"I suppose you're right." At last Prowl gets to his feet. "I'll go."

He walks to the gate, his back hunched in defeat, and I feel a sudden pang of guilt mixed with a desperate desire for him to hurry. Then, to my horror, he turns back. "So, who is it?"

"It's… it's someone you don't know," I said, crossing my fingers behind my back. "Look, we'll have lunch soon and have a good talk. Or something. I promise."

"Ok," said Prowl, looking more wounded than ever. "Fine. I get the message."

I watched, unable to breathe, as he shuts the gate behind him and walked slowly along the street. _Keep walking, keep walking…Don't stop…_

As Prowl finally finds the corner, Optimus' silver limo appears at the other end of the street.

"Holy frag," murmured Bee. "If Optimus had been a _breem_ early…"

"Don't!" I collapsed onto the wall. "Bee, I can't cope with this…"

I felt all shaky. _I think I need a drink. _Abruptly, I realized I've only got part of my flames painted.

The silver limo pulls up in front of the house and out gets the same driver as before. He opens the passenger door, and Optimus steps out. The expensive paints and polish are gone—he's wearing casual blue and red paints, which somehow make him that much hotter.

"Hi!" he said, looking taken aback to see me. "Am I late?"

"No! I was just, um, sitting here. You know. Taking in the view." I gesture across the road, where I notice for the first time a huge fat mech is changing a tire on his leg. "Anyway!" I said, hastily standing up. "Actually… I'm not quite ready. Do you want to come up for a breem?"

"Sure. That would be nice."

"And send your limo away!" I added. "You weren't supposed to have it!"

"You weren't supposed to be sitting outside you house and catch me," countered Optimus. "Ok, Dodger, that's it for the night." He nods to the driver. "I'm in this mech's hands from now on."

"This is Bee, my roommate," I said as the driver gets back into the car. "Bee, Optimus."

"Hi," said Bee, looking a bit self-conscious as they shake hands.

As we made our way up the stairs to our floor, I was suddenly aware of how narrow they were and how the cream paint on the walls were all scuffed and the floor smelled of stale energon. Optimus probably lived in some enormous, grand mansion. He probably had a marble staircase or something.

But so what? It was probably awful. All cold and clattery.

"Hot Rod, if you want finishing getting ready, I'll fix Optimus a drink," said Bee, with a smile that said 'he's nice!'

"Thanks," I said, shooting back an 'isn't he?' look. I hurried into my room and started applying the finishing touches to the flames on my chest.

A few moments later there was a little knock at my door.

"Hi!" I said, expecting Bee; yet in came Optimus, holding out a glass a sweet coolant high grade.

"Oh, thanks!" I smiled gratefully. "I could do with a drink."

"I won't come in—"

"No, it's fine. Sit down!"

I gestured to the berth, but it's covered with paints and polishes. And my dressing table stool is piled high with pads. _Damn, I should have tidied up a bit._

"I'll stand," said Optimus. He took a sip of what looked like coolant and glanced around my room in fascination. "So this is your room. Your world."

"Yes." I flushed slightly, unscrewing my polish. "It's a bit messy—"

"It's very nice. Very homey." I can see him take in the pads piled in the corner, the little glittered stars hanging from my light, and the mirror with a rag strung over the top.

"Virus Research?" he asked puzzled, looking at the label on my sheets. "What does that—"

"It's a shop," I said, a little defiant. "A secondhand shop."

"Ah." He nodded with tactful comprehensions. "Nice sheets," he added, smiling.

"It's ironic," I said in haste. "It's an ironic statement."

_Primus, how embarrassing. I should have changed it._

Now Optimus' was staring incredulously at my open dressing table crammed with brushes. "How many brushes do you have?"

"Er, a few…" I said, closing it.

Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to let Optimus come in here. Now he was picking up my vitamins and examining them. I mean, what's so interesting about _vitamins_?

"Did you grow up in the city?" I asked to distract him. "Or in the country?"

"Kind of between." Optimus looked up from the bottle. "So these are beauty vitamins? You don't take them for the health benefits?"

"Well." I cleared my intakes, feeling a bit shallow. "Obviously I take them for both health _and_ beauty reasons…So…which did you prefer? Town or country?"

Optimus didn't seem to hear. He's looking at Bluestreak's painting. "What's this? It's…lovely?"

"It's a painting," I answered, screwing up my face as I turned to look at it. "I know. It's hideous. I can't stand Bluestreak's painting."

_Where's that brush? Where?_

_Oh, Ok, here it is. Now what's Optimus doing?_

I turned to see him looking in fascination at my exercise chart, which I put up a couple of stellar cycles ago after I'd spent an entire cycle eating energon treats.

"'Seven a.m.'" he read aloud. "'Brisk jog around block. Forty sit-ups. Lunch time: yoga class. Evening: Lift weights. Sixty sit-ups.'" He takes a sip of coolant. "Very impressive. You do all this?"

"Well," I said after a pause, "I don't exactly manage every _single_…I mean, it was quite an ambitious…you know, er, anyway!" I quickly spun around and stand up. "Let's go!"

I had to get him out of here quickly before he does something like spot something embarrassing and ask me what it is. I mean, honestly! Why on Cybertron is he so _interested_ in everything?

* * *

Ok so once again I know it was shorter than the last one, but TfJazz inspired me to at least post a little something.

So I hope you liked it and reviews would be lovely!

Thank you once again to Ayami1 for being my betareader. You are amazing! :)


	15. Chapter 15

**FYI: THIS STORY IS BASED OFF OF SOPHIE KINSELLA'S BOOK "CAN YOU KEEP A SECRET?" JUST IN CASE Y'ALL FORGOT. (yes I said y'all…I'm from Texas)**

Sparkling - Newborn

Youngling – Child

Astrosecond – .498 seconds

Breem - 8.3 Earth minutes

Joor - About 6.5 Earth hours

Orn - about 13 Earth days

Cycle – About 3 Earth weeks

Stellar Cycle – About 73 Earth months

Vorn - About 83 Earth years

**I tried to make this one a bit longer for y'all b/c of the extremely long wait.**

**Ayami1 has generously betaread this chapter for me so thank you!**

**And enjoy! **

* * *

Can you keep a secret?

Chapter 15

As we head out into the balmy evening, I feel light and happy with anticipation. This evening already has a completely different atmosphere from the night before. No scary cars; nor snobbish restaurants. It feels more casual. More fun.

As we transform and whizz along Upper Street, I feel quite proud of myself. It just shows, I'm a true Praxian. I can take my guests to little places off the beaten track. I can find spots that aren't just the obvious venues to go. I mean, not that Optimus's restaurant wasn't amazing. But how much cooler will this be? A secret club! And I mean—who knows—we might meet another famous bot!

We stop at some traffic lights. Outside, plastered across a building, is a huge billboard advertising Praxus Energon.

"It must be weird being you," I say without thinking. Optimus stays silent, and I realize that came out wrong. "I just mean…it's all around you. Everywhere you look, the Praxus logo. Like a symbol of your success."

"Well, sure," he says, nudging my bumper. "And of course my failures."

_Failures?_ "You're never failed at anything!" I say, affronted. "You're a successful, creative marketing genius. Everyone knows that."

Optimus laughs. "You think I've had nothing but success? You want to hear about some of the great Praxus Corporation failures? Like…" He considers for a moment. "The Praxus solar emblem."

"The what?"

"We developed this awhile back. A transparent sticky plastic shape. You stuck it on your armor, solar bathed, and…zowee. When you peeled it off at the end of the orn, you had a shape on your back, or wherever. A pair of lips, a shuttle, whatever. Let me tell you, this was going to be the latest craze." He pauses. "Before armor virus came in, of course."

"What happened?"

"We lost half a million credits," says Optimus simply. "A lot, back then."

"Wow."

I'm utterly taken aback. I've never thought of Optimus as failing at anything.

"Then there was the Praxus pogo stick…and the Praxus pool cue. What a disaster." Optimus shakes his helm reminiscently. "Alpha Trion's fault. He started playing pool every night. Fine. But he couldn't leave it at that." He puts on a Praxian accent. "'Optimus, believe me. Every blue **(A/N: **_**I'm not sure what color energon is...I think it's blue or maybe purple)-**_energoned mech, deep down, wants his own pool cue.'" Optimus revs his engine. "Like pit they do."

I laugh as his Praxian imitation. Then all of a sudden his whole body seems to sag, and he slows down. It's like he's trying to control himself.

"You still miss Alpha Trion?" I say hesitantly.

"Yeah."

"It must be really hard," I say, feeling inadequate.

"It's hard." He gains a little more speed now. "And it's tiring. Doing it all alone. Alpha and I… we spoke a kind of shorthand. We bounced off each other. Gave each other energy. We worked hard…but it wasn't all meetings and formality." Optimus pauses. "You know, we took a vacation together every vorn. Bots didn't understand it. But that's where we got the most work down all vorn."

"He must have been…an amazing mech." I bite my lip plates.

Optimus's silent, and I feel a dart of nerves. Maybe I shouldn't have asked about Alpha Trion. Maybe I've gone too far.

"He had a glow about him," he says suddenly. "He had this phenomenal… energy. Alpha was the kind of mech who'd walk into a meeting, take the room over, and make a bunch of promises he couldn't fulfill. Then somehow…he'd fulfill them." Optimus turns nudging my bumper affectionately "'Don't Pause.' That was Alpha."

I give a startle lurch as my beeper goes off to tell me that we've arrived. I'd almost forgotten what we were doing.

As we transform, the intense mood of the drive disappears. I start to lead Optimus down the alley.

"Very interesting!" says Optimus, looking around. "So, where are we going?"

"Just wait," I say enigmatically. I head for the door, press the buzzer, and take Bee's key out of my subspace with a little frisson of excitement.

He is going to be so impressed. He is going to be _so_ impressed!

"Hello?" comes a voice.

"Hello," I say casually. "I'd like to speak to Beatdown, please."

"Who?" says the voice.

"Beatdown," I repeat, and give a little knowing smile. Obviously they have to double-check.

"Ees no Beatdown here."

"You don't understand. B-eat-do-wn," I enunciate clearly.

"Ees no Beatdown."

Maybe this is the wrong door, it suddenly occurs to me. I mean, I remember it as being this one—but maybe it was this other one, with the frosted glass. Yes. This one looks quite familiar, actually.

"Tiny hitch." I smile at Optimus and press the new bell.

There's silence. I wait a few breems, then try again, and again. There's no reply.

Ok. So…it's not this one either.

Frag.

I am a moron. Why didn't I check the address? I was just so sure I'd remember where it was.

"Is there a problem?" says Optimus

"No!" I say at once. "I'm just not _entirely_ sure…"

I look up and down the street, trying not to panic. Which one was it? Am I going to have to ring every doorbell in the street? I take a few steps along the pavement to trigger my memory. And suddenly, through an arch, I spy another alley almost identical to this one.

I feel cold with horror. Am I in the even in the right _alley_? I dart forward and peer into the other alley. It looks exactly the same: rows of nondescript doors and blanked-out windows.

What am I going to do? I can't try every single doorbell in every fragging alley in the vicinity. It never once occurred to me that this might happen. Not once. I never even thought to—

Ok, I'm being stupid. I'll call Bee! He'll tell me.

I dial Bee's comm but immediately it clicks onto his voice mail.

"Hi, Bee, it's me," I say, trying to sound light and casual. "A small problem has arisen, which is that I can' remember exactly which door the club is behind. Or actually…which alley it's in either. So if you get his, could you comm be back? Thanks!"

I switch off, then turn to Optimus with the brightest, most I'm-in-control expression I can muster.

"Just a slight glitch," I say, and give a relaxed little laugh. "There's this secret club along here somewhere, but I can't quite remember where."

"Never mind," says Optimus. "These things happen."

I feel a sinking sensation at his polite voice. He's just being kind. These things never happen to him. Of course they don't.

I comm the number for home, but it's still engaged. Quickly I dial Bee's comm again, but it's still switched off.

Oh, frag. Frag. We can't stand here in the street all night.

"Hot Rod," says Optimus, "would you like me to make a reservation at—"

"No!" I jump as though stung. Optimus's not going to reserve anything. I've said I'll organize this evening, and I will. "No, thanks. It's ok." I make a snap decision. "Change of plan. We'll go to Alloy-one's instead."

"I could call the car—" begins Optimus.

"We don't need the car!" I stride toward the main road, and thank Primus I can see Alloy-one's just down the street. I point it out to Optimus and we start heading down the street.

Hurrah. I have been grown-up and decisive and saved the situation.

"What's Alloy-one's?" says Optimus as we casually stroll down the street.

"It's really nice. Bee and I used to go there when we lived close to here. It's got these huge tables and gorgeous food and sofas and stuff. And they never chivvy you."

"It sounds perfect," says Optimus.

**(OPG NOTE: I totally want y'all to know that this took forever to write b/c I couldn't stop laughing! I was getting so embarrassed for Hot Rod b/c I would have totally done the same thing! Geez, I'm just blushing thinking about it…Hehe ok continue)**

* * *

Ok, it should _not _take this long to walk to Alloy-one's. We should have gotten there ages ago. I mean, it's only right down the road!

"I'm sorry," I mumble. "This hasn't been one of my greatest successes…"

"Don't worry about it."

"I had it all planned out—"

"Hot Rod, really. Don't worry. Everything's fine."

Just then there was a hole in the sidewalk and I tripped right up against Optimus. Without my intending to, my processor immediately catalogs that his body feels hard and muscular, that his arms wrapped around me make me feel safe and warm, that the cables on his neck are completely different from Prowl's, that I have the strongest urge to reach up and touch them…

"Sorry!" I laugh. "These roads…" I pull away and start to stagger down the sidewalk, aware that my cheeks are flaming.

I really am taking the prize for least cool date in the universe.

"Since we're on the subject," says Optimus, as though nothing just happened. "What have been your greatest successes?"

"My what?"

"Just off the top of your helm. Since I told you about my failures…" He gives me a wry look.

"Well…ok."

I think for a moment. My successes in life. It's not exactly a long list. "I suppose the first would be getting my job. Second would be…" I come to a halt.

"Or something you're proud of," puts in Optimus. "Anything."

"Getting Bee out of his room after his boyfriend chucked him," I reply promptly. "He was a total wreck. He didn't wash his armor and he didn't eat, and he had this big case he had to prepare for, but he just kept crying and saying he didn't care anymore…"

"So, what did you do?" Optimus turns and looks at me, looking intrigued.

"I tricked him. I pretended to set the kitchen on fire. The smoke alarms were going off, and I was shrieking. He came rushing out…and there was an energon party waiting for him. With a big oil cake." I can't help smiling at the memory. "So he cried some more. But at least he was out…"

"You two must be close," says Optimus

"We've just been best friends forever." I shrug. "You know…"

"I do." Optimus nods.

Suddenly I realize what I've said. Oh, Primus. I hope I haven't upset him.

"There's a third!" I exclaim, trying to lighten the atmosphere. "I have three successes to my name."

"_Three?" _Optimus responds with mock amazement. "Are you superbot?"

"I got a joke published when I was ten vorns old!"

"You had a joke published?" He sounds genuinely impresses. "Tell it to me."

"'A ghost walks into a bar. And the barman says…'"

"'We don't serve souls.'" Optimus gives me a quizzical look. "That's a very old joke."

"They didn't say it had to be original," I retort. "I still got five credits for it."

I glance down at the street. We're still awhile away. How can we be going so _slowly?_

"You know, that's a perfect exercise in marketing," Optimus is saying. "Take an old product…repackage it…sell it. Bots have written books about how to do this. You obviously have the natural instinct."

"Well, you know…maybe I'll make millions one orn, like you," I say lightly.

"Is that what you want?" asks Optimus. "To make millions?"

"Absolutely!" I'm uncertain whether he's teasing or not. "Billions, preferably."

"I'm serious. What does Hot Rod want out of life? Credits? Fame? Security?"

"Happiness, I suppose. Doing what I want to be doing. Feeling I've made my mark on the planet."

A promotion, I add silently. And thinner thighs would be nice.

I look down the street again and feel a lift in my spirits. At last. Nearly there…

Come on, come on! Almost there!

Ok, calm down, Hot Rod. Two buildings down. We're finally here. "So this is it!" I say, trying to sound relaxed as we step up to the building. "Sorry it took a while…"

"No problem," says Optimus. "This place looks great."

As we get close to the door, I have to admit, I'm pretty pleased we came. Alloy-one's looks absolutely amazing! There are lights decorating the familiar green façade, and balloons tied to the canopy, and music and laughter spilling out of the open door. I can even hear bots singing inside.

"It's not normally quite _this_ buzzing!" I say with a laugh, and head for the door. I can already see Alloy standing just inside. His thick, gray armor is as brilliant as ever, and he's as plump as usual too.

"Hi!" I say as I push the door open. "Alloy!"

"Hot Rod!" says Alloy. His cheeks are rosy; he's holding a cube of high grade and is beaming even more widely than usual. "Darling!"

He kisses me on each cheek, and I feel a flood of warm relief. I was right to come here. I know the management. They'll make sure we have a wonderful time.

"This is Optimus."

"Optimus! Wonderful to meet you!" Alloy kisses Optimus on each cheek, too.

"So, could we have a table for two?"

"Ah…" He pulls a face of regret. "Sweetspark, we're closed!"

"What? But…but you're not closed. Bots are here!" I look around at all the merry faces.

"It's a private party!" He raises his glass to some bot across the room and shouts something at him. "My nephew's bonding ceremony. You ever meet him? Guidar. He served here a few vorns ago…"

"I…I'm not sure."

"He met a lovely femme at the law school. You know, he's qualified now! You ever need legal advice…"

"Thanks. Well…congratulations."

"I hope the party goes well," says Optimus, and squeezes my arm. "Never mind, Hot Rod. You couldn't have known."

"Darling, I'm sorry!" says Alloy, seeing my face. "Another night, I'll give you the best table we have. You call in advance—you let me know…"

"I'll do that." I manage a smile. "Thanks, Alloy."

I can't even look at Optimus. I dragged him all the way down here for this.

I have to redeem this situation. Quickly "We'll go to the bar!" I say as soon as we're outside on the pavement. "I mean, what's wrong with just sitting down with a nice drink?"

"Sounds good," says Optimus, and follows me as I hurry down the street to a sign reading 'The Nag's Helm' and push the door open. I've never been in this bar before, but surely it's bound to be fairly—

Ok. Maybe not.

This has to be the grimmest bar I've ever seen in my life. Cracks in the wall, no music, and with no signs of life except a single mech who's clearly had way too much to drink.

I cannot have a date with Optimus in here. I just can't. "Right!" I say, swinging the door shut again. "Let's think again." I quickly look up and down the street, but apart from Alloy-one's everything is shut down except for a couple gritty take-away places and a firm. "Well…let's just drive back to town!" I say with a kind of shrill brightness. "It won't take too long."

I stride to the edge of the pavement and look down the road. During the next 3 breems, I'm trying to figure out which way back to town. I can't ask for directions because not a single car passes by. No vehicles at all.

"Kind of quiet," observes Optimus at last.

"Well, this is really kind of a residential area. Alloy-one's is a bit of a one-off."

Outwardly, I'm still quite calm. But inside I'm starting to panic. What are we going to do? Should we try and drive to the main street? But it's fraggin miles away.

I glance at the time and am shocked to see that it's nine-fifteen. We've spent over an hour faffing about and we haven't even had a drink. And it's all my fault.

I can't even organize one simple evening without it going catastrophically wrong.

Suddenly I want to burst into tears. I want to sink down on the pavement and bury my helm in my hands and sob.

"How about flavored energon?" says Optimus, and I feel a pinprick of hope.

"Why? Do you know an energon place around—"

"I see flavored energon for sale." He nods at one of the gritty takeaway places. "And I see a bench." He gestures to the other side of the road, where there's a tiny railed garden with paving and a wooden bench. "You get the energon. I'll save the bench."

* * *

I have never felt so mortified in my entire life. Ever.

Optimus Prime takes me to the grandest, fanciest restaurant in the planet, and I take him to a park bench.

"Here's your energon," I say, carrying the hot cubes over to where he's sitting. "I got crusted, flakes, and granite."

I can't quite believe this is going to be our supper. I mean, they aren't even _nice_ energons. They aren't even gourmet type of energons. They're just cheap slabs of stale energon with a few dodgy flavorings.

"Perfect," says Optimus. He takes a large sip, then reaches into his subspace. "Now, this was supposed to be your going home present, but since we're here…"

I gape as he produces a small stainless steel highgrade shaker and two matching cubes. He unscrews the top of the shaker and, to my astonishment, pours a pink, transparent liquid into each cube.

Is that…

"I don't believe it!" I gaze at him, wide-eyed.

"Well, come on. I couldn't let you wonder all your life what it tasted like, could I?" He hands me a cube and raises his toward me. "Your good health."

"Cheers." I take a sip of the drink…and—oh, my Primus—it's yummy. Sharp and sweet, with a kick of coolant.

"Good?"

"Delicious!" I say, and take another sip.

He's being so nice to me. He's pretending he's having a good time. But what does he thing inside? He must despise me. He must think I'm a complete and utter idiot.

"Hot Rod…are you ok?"

"Not really," I say in a thick voice. "Optimus…I'm so sorry. I really am. I honestly had it all planned. We were going to go to this really cool club where celebrities go, and it was going to be really fun…"

"Hot Rod." Optimus puts his drink down and looks at me. "I wanted to spend this evening with you. And that's what we're doing."

"Yes. But—"

"That's what we're doing," he repeats firmly.

He leans toward me, and my throat tightens in excitement. This is it. He's going to kiss me. He's going to—

Suddenly I stiffen in a rictus of horror.

Optimus stops moving, puzzled. "Hot Rod? Are you ok?"

"It's just…a spider," I manage through clenched dentas, and jerk my helm at my leg.

A big, black, turbo spider is slowly crawling up my ankle. I feel almost sick, just looking at it.

With one brisk swipe, Optimus brushes the spider off onto the pavement, and I subside back on the bench, trying to regain my composure.

"Shuttles _and _spiders, huh?" says Optimus.

"Yeah, kind of. I suppose you're not afraid of anything," I add, trying to laugh it off.

"Real mech's don't get afraid," he says teasingly.

He seems to have forgotten all about kissing me. Misery sinks over me. Why do I have to be scared of fraggin spiders? As soon as I get home tonight, I'm booking myself on a hypnosis course. Spiders, flying, and creepy clowns. I'm going to zap them all.

In the distance I can hear a group of bots leaving Alloy-one's, shouting to one another.

"So, how did you get that scar?" I say, to make conversation. I gesture to his wrist, where a faint line snakes under his armor.

"It's a long, boring story. You don't want to hear it."

Yes, I do! An inner voice protests. Optimus is not exactly the best at talking about himself.

"You have energon on your chin," he says, and reaches up with a napkin. His fingers brush gently against my face, and I feel a huge bound of hope. Maybe I didn't ruin things. He's bending toward me again. This is it. This is really it. This is—

"Optimus."

We both leap back in shock, and I spill my drink on the ground. I turn around, and there's Mirage, standing at the gate of the tiny garden.

What the fragging pit is Mirage doing here?

"Great timing," murmurs Optimus. "Hi, Mirage."

"But…but what's he doing here?" I stare at Optimus. "How did he know where we were?"

"He called while you were getting the energon." Optimus sighs and rubs his face. "I didn't know he'd get here this quickly. Hot Rod…something's come up. I need to have a quick word with him. I promise it won't take long. Ok?"

"Ok," I reply, trying to sound cheerful. After all, what else _can _I say? I reach for the shaker, pour the remains of the pink energon into my cube, and take a deep swig.

Optimus and Mirage are standing by the gate, having an animated conversation in low voices. I take a sip of energon and casually shift along the bench so I can hear better.

"…what to do from here…"

"…plan B…back up to Gygax…"

"…urgent…"

I look up and find myself meeting Mirage's optics. Quickly I look away again, pretending to be studying the ground. Their voices get even lower, and I can't hear a word. Then suddenly Optimus breaks off and comes toward me.

"Hot Rod…I'm really sorry about this. But I'm going to have to go."

"_Go?"_

"I'm going to have to go away for a few orns. I'm sorry." He sits down beside me on the bench. "But…it's pretty important."

"Oh. Oh, right."

"Mirage's ordered a car to take you home."

Great, I think savagely. Thanks a lot, Mirage. "That was really…thoughtful of him," I say, and trace a pattern on my leg with my fingers.

"Hot Rod, I really have to go," says Optimus. "But I'll see you when I get back, ok? At the company family orn. And we'll…take it from there."

"Ok." I try to smile. "That would be great."

"I had a good time tonight."

"So did I." My optics lowered. "I know it wasn't exactly clockwork…but I had a really good time."

"We'll have a good time again." He gently lifts my chin until I'm looking straight at him. "I promise, Hot Rod."

He leans forward, and this time there's no hesitation. His mouth lands on mine, sweet and firm. He's kissing me. Optimus Prime is kissing me on a park bench.

His mouth is opening mine, searching my mouth with his glossa. His arm creeps around me and pulls me toward him, and my intakes catch in my throat. I find myself reaching up his chest, feeling the ridges of hard but soft muscular armor beneath my hand. Oh, Primus, I want this. I want more.

Suddenly he pulls away, and I feel like I've been wrenched out of a dream.

"Hot Rod, I have to go."

My mouth is prickly wet. I can still feel his body on mine. My entire body is throbbing. This can't be the end. It can't.

"Don't go," I hear myself saying thickly. "Stay."

What am I suggesting? That we do it under the _bench?_

Frankly, yes. Anywhere would do.

"I don't want to go." His dark eyes are almost opaque. "But I have to."

"So…I'll…I'll see you." I can barely talk properly.

"I can't wait."

"Neither can I."

"Optimus." We both look up to see Mirage at the gate.

"Ok," calls Optimus. We both stand up, and I discreetly look away from Optimus's rather strange posture.

I could ride along in the car and—

No. _No._ Rewind. I did not think that.

As we reach the road, there are two silver limo's waiting by the pavement. Mirage is standing by one, and the other is obviously for me. Fragging pit. I feel like I've suddenly become part of the royal family or something.

As the driver opens the door for me, Optimus touches my hand briefly. I want to grab him for a final kiss, but somehow I manage to control myself.

"Bye," he murmurs.

"Bye," I murmur back.

Then I get into the car, the door closes with an expensive clunk, and we purr away.

* * *

_We'll take it from there._ That could mean…

Or it could mean…

Oh, Primus. Every time I think about it, I feel an excited little fizz. I can't concentrate at work. I can't think about anything else.

The corporate family orn is a company event, I keep reminding myself. _Not _a date. It'll be a work occasion, and there probably won't be any chance at all for Optimus and me to do more than say hello in a formal, boss-employee manner. Possibly shake hands. Nothing more.

_We'll take it from there._

Oh, Primus. Oh, Primus…

On the morning of the corporate family event I get up extra early, exfoliate all over, buff my armor, paint my armor in my best paints, and rub in my most expensive polish.

Just because it's always a good thing to be well groomed. No other reason.

The family orn is happening at Praxus House, which is the Praxus Corporation's country house. They use it for training and conferences and creative thinking orns, none of which I ever get invited to. So I've never been here before, and as I transform after a long drive, I have to admit I'm pretty impressed. It's a really nice big old mansion, with lots of windows and pillars at the front. Probably dating from the…older period.

I follow the sounds of music and walk around the house to find the event in full swing on the vast lawn. Brightly colored bunting is festooning the back of the house, tents are dotting the ground, a band is playing on a little bandstand, and younglings are shrieking on a bouncy castle.

"Hot Rod!" I look up to see Red Alert advancing toward me, dressed as a joker with a red and yellow pointy hat. "Where's your costume?"

"Costume!" I try to look surprised. "Gosh! Um, I didn't realize we had to have one."

This is not entirely true. Yesterday evening Red Alert sent around an urgent message to everyone in the company, reading: A REMINDER: AT THE CFD, COSTUMES ARE COMPULSORY FOR ALL PRAXUS EMPLOYEES.

But honestly, how are you supposed to produce a costume with five breems' of warning? And no way was I going to come here today in some hideous nylon costume from the party shop.

Plus, let's face it, what can they do about it now? "Sorry," I say vaguely, looking around for Optimus. "Still, never mind—"

"You bots! It was on the memo; it was in the newsletter…" He takes hold of my shoulder as I try to walk away. "Well, you'll have to take one of the spare ones."

"What?" I look at him blankly. "What spare ones?"

"I had a feeling this might happen," says Red Alert with a slight note of triumph, "so I made advance provisions."

A cold feeling starts to creep over me. He can't mean—

He can't possibly mean—

"We've got plenty to choose from…" he's saying.

No. No way. I have to escape. Now.

I give a desperate wriggle, but his hand is like a clamp on my shoulder. He pushes me into a tent, where two middle-aged femmes are standing beside a rack of… Oh, my Primus. The most, revolting, lurid bot-made-fiber costumes I've ever seen. Worse than the party shop. Where did he _get _these from?

"No," I say in panic. "Really. I'd rather stay as I am…"

"Every bot has to wear a costume!" says Red Alert firmly. "It was in the memo!"

"But…but this _is _a costume!" I quickly gesture to my freshly painted armor. "I forgot to say. It's, um…a golden age armored warrior costume, very authentic…"

"Hot Rod, this is a fun orn," snaps Red Alert. "And part of that fun derives from seeing our fellow employees and family in amusing outfits. Which reminds me, where is your family?"

"Oh." I pull the regretful face I've been practicing all cycle. "They…actually, they couldn't make it."

Which could be because I didn't tell them anything about it.

"You did tell them about it?" He eyes me suspiciously. "You sent them the memo?"

"Yes!" I cross my fingers behind my back. "Of course I told them! They would have loved to be here!"

"Well. You'll have to mingle with other families and colleagues. Here we are." He shoves a horrendous nylon costume with puffy sleeves toward me.

"I don't want to wear—" I begin, and then break off as I see a femme from Accounts miserably being pushed into a big, shaggy cyber-monkey costume. "Ok." I grab the costume. "I'll wear it."

* * *

I almost want to cry. My beautiful armor is covered by an outfit that makes me look like a six vorn old youngling. A six vorn old youngling with zero taste and color blindness.

As I emerge disconsolately from the tent, I can hear the band briskly playing the "Oom-Pah-Pah" song and someone is making an incomprehensible, crackly announcement over the loudspeaker. I look around, squinting against all the bright colors, trying to work out who everyone is behind their disguises. Suddenly I spot Sentinel walking along the pavement, dressed as a pirate, with three small younglings hanging off his legs.

"Uncle Sentinel! Uncle Sentinel!" one is shrieking. "Do your scary face again!"

"I want candy!" yells another. "Uncle Sentinel, I want candyyyy!"

"Hi, Sentinel," I say miserably. "Are you having a good time?"

"Whoever invented corporate family orns should be shot," he says without a flicker of humor. "Get the frag off my foot!" he snaps at one of the children, and they all shriek with delighted laughter.

"Mummy, I don't _need _to go to wash up," mutters Cliffjumper as he walks by dressed as a turbo fish, in the company of a commanding femme in a huge hat.

"Cliffjumper, there's no need to be so touchy!" booms the femme.

This is so weird. Bot's with their families are completely different. Thank Primus mine aren't here.

I wonder where Optimus is. Maybe he's in the house. Maybe I should—

"Hot Rod!" I look up and see Bluestreak heading toward me. He's dressed in a totally bizarre orange energon stick costume, holding the arm of an elderly mech with faded black armor, almost gray looking. Who must be his creator, I suppose.

Which is a bit weird, because I thought he said he was coming with—

"Hot Rod, this is Crosswise!" he says radiantly. "Crosswise, meet my friend Hot Rod. He's the one who brought us together!"

I don't believe it.

This is his new mech? _This _is Crosswise. But he has to be at least seventy vorns old!

In a total blur, I shake his hand, which is dry and coarse, just like grandpa Kup's, and manage to make a bit of a small talk about the weather. But all the time, I'm in total shock.

Don't get me wrong. I am not ageist. I am not anything-ist. I think bots are all the same whether they're black or white, mech or femme, young or—

But he's an old mech! He's _old_!

"Isn't he lovely?" says Bluestreak fondly as Crosswise goes off to get some drinks. "He's so thoughtful! Nothing's too much trouble. I've never been out with a mech like him before!"

I clear my intakes. "So, er, remind me. Where exactly did you meet Crosswise again?"

"You know, silly!" says Bluestreak, mock chidingly. "You suggested I try somewhere different for lunch, remember? Well, I found this really unusual place tucked away. In fact, I really recommend it."

"Is it…a restaurant? A café?

"Not exactly," he says thoughtfully. "I've never been anywhere like it before. You go in and someone gives you a tray and you collect your lunch and then eat it, sitting at all these tables. And it only cost two credits! And afterward they have free entertainment! Like sometimes its cards…sometimes it's a singsong around the piano…One time they had this brilliant energon dance! I've made loads of new friends…"

I stare at him for a few silent astroseconds.

I'm remembering that place Kup went to a few times, until he had a bust-up with the manager. That place full of jolly helpers, and posters advertising cheap trips.

"Bluestreak," I say at last. "This place…it couldn't possibly be…a day care center for the elderly?"

"Oh!" he says, looking taken aback. "Erm…"

"Try to think. Is everyone who goes there on the…old side?"

"Gosh," he says slowly, and screws up his nose. "Not that you mention it, I suppose everyone is kind of quite…mature. But honestly, Hot Rod, you should come along! We have a real laugh!"

"You're still _going _there?"

"I go every day," he says in surprise. "I'm on the social committee!"

"Hello again!" says Crosswise cheerily, reappearing with three cubes. He beams at Bluestreak and gives him a kiss on the cheek, and he beams back. And suddenly I feel quite spark-warmed. Ok, it's weird. But they do seem to make a really sweet couple.

"The mech behind the stall seemed rather stressed-out, poor lad," says Crosswise as I take my first delicious sip of Primm's, closing my optics to savor it.

Mmm. There is absolutely nothing nicer on a hot orn than a nice cold cube of—

Frag. I promised to do the Primm's stall with Prowl, didn't I? I glance at the time and realize I'm already ten breems' late. Oh, frag. No wonder he's stressed-out.

I hastily apologize to Crosswise and Bluestreak, then hurry as fast as I can to the stall, which is in the corner of the garden. There I find Prowl manfully coping with a huge queue all on his own. He's dressed as Leo Prime, with puffy sleeves and thick armor, and has a huge read mask stuck to his face. He must be absolutely boiling.

"Sorry," I mutter, sliding in beside him. "I had to get into my costume. What do I have to do?"

"Pour out cubes of Primm's," says Prowl curtly. "One point fifty credits each. Do you think you can manage?"

"Yes!" I say, a bit nettled. "Of course I can manage!"

For the next few breem's we're too busy serving Primm's to talk. Then the queue melts away, and we're left on our own again.

Prowl isn't even looking at me, and he's clanking cubes around so ferociously I'm afraid he might break one.

"Prowl, look, I'm sorry I'm late—"

"That's all right," he says, and starts chopping a bundle of crusted flakes as though he wants to kill it. "So, did you have a nice time the other evening?"

That's what this is all about.

"Yes, I did, thanks," I say after a pause.

"With your new mystery mech."

"Er, yes," I say, and scan the crowded lawn, searching for Optimus.

"It's someone at work, isn't it?" Prowl suddenly says, and I nearly drop a bottle of energon.

"Why do you say that?" I force myself to sound light.

"That's why you won't tell me who it is."

"It's not that! It's just… look Prowl, can't you just respect my privacy?"

"I think I have a right to know who I've been dumped for!" He shoots me a reproachful look.

"You weren't _dumped_ for him—" I stop myself. It's probably not a good idea to get into details. "I just…don't think it's very helpful to discuss it."

"Hot Rod, I'm not stupid." He gives me an appraising look. "I know you a lot better than you think I do."

I feel a sudden flicker of uncertainty. What if he guesses? Maybe I've underestimated Prowl all this time. Maybe he does know me. Oh, Primus.

I start to slice up energon candies, constantly scanning the crowd. Where is Optimus, anyway?

"I've got it," says Prowl triumphantly. "It's Sentinel, isn't it?"

"What?" I gape at him, wanting to laugh. "No, it's not Sentinel! Why on cybertron would you think it was Sentinel?"

"You keep looking at him." He gestures to where Sentinel is standing nearby, moodily swinging a bottle of high grade. "Every two breems!"

"I'm not looking at _him_! I was just looking for…" I take a sip of Primm's. "I'm just taking in the atmosphere."

"So, why is he hanging around here?"

"He's not! Honestly, Prowl, take it from me—I'm not going out with Sentinel."

"You think I'm a fool, don't you?" says Prowl.

"I don't think you're a fool! I just…I think this is a pointless exercise! You're never going to—"

"Is it Springer?" His optics narrowed. "You and he have always had a bit of a spark going…"

"No! It's not Springer!"

Honestly. Clandestine affairs are hard enough as it is, without your ex-boyfriend subjecting you to the third degree. I should never have agreed to this stupid Primm's stall.

"Look," Prowl suddenly says in a lowered voice.

I raise my helm, and feel as though some bot's squeezed my spark. Optimus is walking over the field towards us. He looks so completely and utterly sexy. I feel quite faint.

"He's coming this way!" hisses Prowl. "Quick! Tidy up! Hello, sir," he says in a louder voice. "Would you like a cube of Primm's?"

"Thank you very much, Prowl," says Optimus. Then he looks at me. "Hello Hot Rod. Enjoying the orn?"

"Hello," I say, my voice about six notches higher than usual. "Yes, it's…lovely!" With trembling hands I pour out a cube of Primm's and give it to him.

"Hot Rod! You forgot the flakes!" says Prowl

"It doesn't matter about the flakes," says Optimus, his optics fixed on mine.

"You can have some flakes if you want it," I say, gazing back.

"It looks fine just the way it is." He takes a deep gulp.

This is so unreal. We can't keep our optics off each other. Surely it's completely obvious to everyone else what's going on. Surely Prowl must realize. Quickly I look away and pretend to busy myself.

"So, Hot Rod," says Optimus casually. "Just to talk work briefly. That extra typing assignment I asked you about—the Leopold file."

"Er, yes?" I'm so flustered I upend a cube of Primm's all over the counter.

"Perhaps we could have a quick word about it before I go? I have a suite of rooms up at the house."

"Right," I say, my spark pounding. "Ok."

"Say…in two joors?"

"Two joors it is."

He saunters off, holding his cube, and I stand staring after him.

"I've been so stupid!" exclaims Prowl, suddenly stop mixing energon. "I've been so _blind_." He turns to face me, his optics burning blue. "Hot Rod, I know who your new mech is."

My legs go wobbly.

"No, you don't," I say quickly. "Prowl, you don't know who it is. Actually…it's not anyone from work. I just made that up. It's this mech who lives over in west Praxus. You're never met him. His name is, um, Gray…Shot. He works as a postbot…

"Don't lie to me! I know exactly who it is." He folds his arms. "It's Perceptor from Design, isn't it?"

* * *

**Thank you for reading! And thank you Ayami1 for betareading this chapter!**

**I've already started writing Ch.16 so hopefully it'll be up soon. I would say by Thanksgiving the latest but I haven't been that great in making my own deadlines so I might be lieing! accidentally of course :)**

**Thank you all agian, you've all been so wonderful and patient! :D**


	16. Chapter 16

**FYI: THIS STORY IS BASED OFF OF SOPHIE KINSELLA'S BOOK "CAN YOU KEEP A SECRET?" JUST IN CASE Y'ALL FORGOT**.

**Sparkling - Newborn**

**Youngling – Child/Teenager**

**Astrosecond – .498 seconds**

**Breem - 8.3 Earth minutes**

**Joor - About 6.5 Earth hours**

**Orn - about 13 Earth days**

**Cycle – About 3 Earth weeks**

**Stellar Cycle – About 73 Earth months**

**Vorn - About 83 Earth years**

**Once again, thank you Ayami1 for betareading this chapter! You're amazing!**

**ENJOY! :D**

* * *

**Can you keep a secret?**

**Chapter 16**

As soon as our stint on the stall is up, I escape from Prowl and go sit under a crystal tree with a cube of Primm's, checking the time every two breems. A suite of rooms. Than can only mean one thing. Optimus and I are going to interface.

I can't believe how nervous I am about this. Maybe Optimus knows loads of tricks. Maybe he'll expect me to be really sophisticated. Maybe he'll expect all kinds of amazing maneuvers that I've never even heard of.

I mean… I don't think I'm _bad _at interfacing. You know.

But what sort of standard are we talking about? This is a big deal. Optimus Prime is an international multi-millionaire. He's dated heads of companies, models, and…and strong, sleek mechs…and femmes with enormous, perky breast plates who do kinky stuff involving a level of flexibility that I don't even think I _possess_…

How am I ever going to match up? This was a bad, bad idea. I'm never going to be as good as the president of Origin Software, am I? I can just imagine her with long legs and armor that costs four hundred credits, and honed, sleek body…

Ok, just…stop. This is getting ridiculous. I'll be fine. I'm _sure_ I'll be fine. It'll be the same as taking an exam—once you get into it, you forget to be nervous.

I glace at the time and feel a fresh spasm of fright. It's been exactly two joors.

Time to go and interface. I stand up, and do a few surreptitious limbering-up exercises just in case. Then I take a deep breath and begin to walk toward the house. I've just reached the edge of the lawn when I hear a shrill voice.

"There he is! Hot Rod! Yoo-hoo!"

That sounded just like my mom. Weird. I stop briefly and turn around, but I can't see anyone. It must be a hallucination. It must be my subconscious guilt trying to throw me, or something.

"Hot Rod, turn around! Over here!"

Hang on. That sounded like…Tracks.

I peer at the crowded scene, my optics squinting. I can't see anything. I'm looking all around, but I can't see—

And then they spring into view. Tracks, Blades, and my creators. Walking toward me. All in costume. Mom is wearing blue fabric with pink flowers all over and holding a picnic basket. Dad is wearing a green costume with a bow and arrow kit strapped to his back and holding two fold-up chairs. Blades is dressed as a super hero and holding a bottle of high grade. And Tracks is wearing white clothing including a platinum blond wig and high-heeled peds, and complacently soaking up the attention.  
(**OPG: Ok, so what I had in mind for the costumes is: Mom is supposed to be wearing like a Japanese Kimono, Dad is supposed to be like Robin Hood, Blades is supposed to be like Superman but I just changed it to a superhero, and Tracks is supposed to be like Marilyn Monroe. It was kinda hard to write; I wasn't sure if I should actually make them wear a costume with fabric and stuff or just change armor colors so bear with me please! You get the general gist of it)**

What are they _doing _here? I didn't tell them about the corporate family orn. I'm _positive _I didn't.

"Hi, Hot Rod!" says Tracks as he gets near. "Like the outfit?" He gives a little shimmy and pats his blond wig.

"Who are you supposed to be, darling?" says Mom, looking in puzzlement at my nylon outfit.

"I…Mom, what are you doing here? I never…I mean, I forgot to tell you…"

"I know you did," says Tracks. "But your friend Cliffjumper told me all about it the other orn when I called."

I will kill Cliffjumper. I will murder him.

"So, what time's' the fancy costume contest?" says Tracks, winking at two mech youngling's who are gawking at him. "We haven't missed it, have we?"

"There…there isn't a contest," I say, finding my voice.

"Really?" Tracks looks put out.

I don't believe him. This is why he's come here, isn't it? To win a stupid competition. "You came all this way just for a fancy costume contest?"

"Of course not!" Tracks quickly regains his usual scornful expression. "Blades and I are taking you creators to Hanwood Manor. It's near here. So we thought we'd drop in."

They're on their way somewhere! Thank Primus. We can have a little chat, then they can be on their way—

"We've brought a picnic," says Mom. "Now, let's find a nice spot."

"Do you think you've got time for a picnic?" I say, trying to sound casual. "You might get caught in traffic. In fact, maybe you should head off now, just to be on the safe side…"

"The table's not booked until seven!" says Tracks. "How about under that tree?"

I watch dumbly as Mom shakes out a picnic blanket and Dad sets up the two chairs. I cannot sit down and have a family picnic when Optimus is waiting to interface with me. I have to do something, quick. _Think_.

"Um, the thing is," I say in sudden inspiration, "the thing is, actually, I won't be able to stay. We've all got duties to do."

"Don't tell me they can't give you half a joor off," says Dad.

"Hot Rod's the linchpin of the whole organization!" says Tracks with a sarcastic snigger. "Can't you tell?"

"Hot Rod!" Red Alert is approaching the picnic blanket. "Your family came after all! And in costume! Jolly good!" He beams around, his joker's hat tinkling in the breeze. "Now, make sure you all buy a raffle ticket…"

"Oh, we will!" says Mom. "And we were wondering, could Hot Rod possibly have some time off his duties to have a picnic with us?"

"Absolutely!" says Red Alert. "You've done your stint on the Primm's stall, haven't you, Hot Rod? You can relax now."

"Lovely!" says Mom. "Isn't that good new, Hot Rod?"

"That's…great!" I manage at last.

I have no choice. I have no way out of this. With stiff knees I lower myself onto the blanket and accept a cube of high grade.

"So, is Prowl here?" asks Mom, unpacking energon sticks onto a plate.

"Shh! Don't mention Prowl!" says Dad.

"I thought you were supposed to be moving in with him," says Tracks, taking a swig of high grade. "What happened there?"

"He made him energon," quips Blades, and Tracks titters.

I try to smile, but my face won't quite do it. Its ten breems past the time I was supposed to meet Optimus. He'll be waiting. What can I do?

As Dad hands me a plate, I see Mirage passing by. He's wearing his regular armor and has made no attempt at a costume. "Mirage!" I call, and he stops. "Um, Mr. Prime was asking earlier on about my family. And whether they were here or not. Could you possibly tell him that they've…they've unexpectedly turned up? I look up at him in desperation and he nods. He's understood.

"I'll pass on the message," he says.

And that's the end of that.

* * *

I once read an article called _'Make Things Go Your Way'_ that said if a orn doesn't turn out as you intended, you should go back and chart the differences between your goals and your results, and this will help you learn from your mistakes.

So…ok. Let's just chart exactly how much this orn has diverged from the original plan I had this morning.

Goal: Look like sexy and sophisticated mech in beautiful polished armor.  
Result: Look like Munchkin in extra lurid puffy nylon sleeves.

Goal: Make secret assignation with Optimus.  
Result: Make secret assignation with Optimus, then fail to turn up.

Goal: Have fantastic interface with Optimus in romantic location.  
Result: Have raspberry energon sticks on a picnic blanket.

Overall Goal: Euphoria  
Overall Result: Complete misery

All I can do is dumbly push my food around my plate, telling myself this can't last forever. Dad and Blades have made about a million jokes about Don't Mention Prowl. Tracks has shown me his new expensive armor, which cost four thousand credits, and boasted about how his company is expanding yet again. And now he's telling us how he talked with the chief-executive of some huge furniture conglomerate last cycle.

"They all try it on," he says, taking a huge bite of an energon stick. "But I say to the, if I _needed _a job…" He trails off. "Did you want something?"

"Hi there," comes a dry, familiar voice.

I raise my helm, blinking.

It's Optimus. Standing there in his cowboy outfit. He smiles in an almost imperceptible way, and I feel my spark lift. He's come to get me. I should have known he would. "Hi!" I say, half dazedly. "Everyone, this is—"

"My names Optimus," he cuts across me. "I'm a friend of Hot Rod's. Hot Rod…" He looks at me, his face giving nothing away. "I'm afraid you're needed."

"Oh, dear!" I say with a whoosh of relief. "Oh, well, never mind. These things happen…"

"That's a shame!" says Mom. "Can't you at least stay for a quick drink? Optimus, you're welcome to join us, have an energon stick…"

"We have to go," I say hurriedly. "Don't we, Optimus?"

"I'm afraid we do," he says, and holds out a hand to pull me up.

"Sorry, everyone," I say.

"We don't mind!" says Tracks with the same sarcastic laugh. "I'm sure you've some vital job to do, Hot Rod. In fact, I expect the whole event would collapse without you!"

Optimus stops. Very slowly, he turns around. "Let me guess," he says. "You must be…Tracks."

"Yes!" he says in surprise. "That's right!"  
"And Mom…Dad…" He surveys the faces. "And you have to be…Blades?"

"Spot on!" says Blades with a chortle.

"Very good!" says Mom with a laugh. "Hot Rod must have told you a bit about us!"

"Oh…he has," agrees Optimus, looking around the picnic blanket again in fascination. "You know…there might be time for that drink after all."

What? _What_ did he say?

"Good!" says Mom. "It's always nice to meet friends of Hot Rod's!"

I watch in total disbelief as Optimus settles down on the blanket. He was supposed to be _rescuing _me from this. Not joining in. I sit down beside him, trying to think of a plan to get him away.

"So, you work for this company, Optimus?" says Dad, pouring him a cube of high grade.

"In a way," says Optimus after a pause. "I've recently taken what you might call…a career break."

I can see Tracks and Blades exchanging looks.

"So you're…between jobs?" says Mom tactfully. "What a sham. Still, I'm sure something will come up…"

Oh, Primus. She has no idea who he is. None of my family has any idea who Optimus is.

I'm not at all sure I like this. "Er, the grounds are really beautiful!" I exclaim. "Shall we have a little walk? Mom?"

We can walk around the gardens…and Optimus and I can get 'lost'. Perfect.

"We're about to eat, Hot Rod!" says Mom in surprise. "By the way, I saw Blaster the other orn," she adds. "He asked after you."

Out of the corner of my optics, I can see Optimus's optics brightening.

"Gosh!" I say, my cheeks growing hot. "Blaster! I haven't thought about him for…ages."

"Blaster and Hot Rod used to step out together," Mom explains to Optimus with a fond smile. "Such a nice youngling. Very _bookish_. He and Hot Rod used to study together in his bedroom, all afternoon!"

I cannot look at Optimus. I cannot.

"You know…I always find studying alone in a familiar atmosphere do be quite enjoyable," Optimus suddenly says. "Quite enjoyable." He looks at Mom. "Don't you think?"

I am going to kill him.

"Er, yes!" says Mom in puzzlement. "Quite…" She cuts Optimus a huge chunk of energon cake. "So, Optimus," she says sympathetically as she hands him a plate. "Are you getting by financially?"

"I'm…doing ok," Optimus replies gravely.

Mom looks at him for a moment, then she rummages in the picnic basket and produces another energon cake still in its box and a few cubes of energon.

"Take this," she says, pressing it on him. "And some energon. They'll tide you over."

"Oh, no," says Optimus at once. "Really, I couldn't—"

"I won't take no for an answer! I insist!"

"Well, that's…truly kind." Optimus puts the cake down beside him, looking touched.

"You want some free career advice, Optimus?" says Tracks, munching on an energon stick.

I feel a sudden dread. If he starts demonstrating the successful mech walk, that's it. I'm leaving.

"Now, you want to listen to Tracks!" puts in Dad with pride. "He's our star! He has his own company!"

"Is that so?" says Optimus politely.

"So!" I chime in, trying to steer the conversation. "Blades! How much did you say you paid for your new car model again?"

But Blades isn't even listening. He's pouring himself another drink.

"Office furniture supply," says Tracks with a complacent smile. "Started from scratch. Now we have forty staff and a turnover of just over two million. And you know what my secret is?"

"I…have no idea," says Optimus.

Tracks leans forward and fixes him with his blue optics.

"Racing."

"Racing!" says Optimus after a pause.

"Business is all about networking," says Tracks. "It's all about contacts. I'm telling you, Optimus, I've met most of the top business people in the country on the racing track. Take any company. Take _this _company." He spreads his arm around the scene. "I know the top mech here. I could call him up tomorrow if I wanted to!"

I'm frozen in horror.

"Really?" says Optimus, sounding riveted. "Is that so?"

"Oh, yes." He leans forward confidentially. "And I mean, the _top_ mech."

"The top mech," echoes Optimus. "I'm…impressed."

"Perhaps Tracks could put in a good word for you, Optimus!" exclaims Mom in sudden inspiration. "You'd do that, wouldn't you, Tracks love?"

I would burst into hysterical laughter if the situation weren't so completely and utterly hideous.

"I guess I'll have to take up racing without delay," says Optimus. "Meet the right bots." He raises his optics to me. "What do you think, Hot Rod?"

"I…I…" I can barely talk. I am beyond embarrassment. I just want to disappear into the blanket and never be seen again.

"Mr. Prime?" A voice suddenly interrupts and I breathe a sigh of relief. We all look up to see Red Alert bending awkwardly down to Optimus.

"I'm extremely sorry to interrupt, sir," he says glancing around at my family as though trying to discern any reason at all why Optimus Prime might be having a picnic with us. "But someone is here and would like a very brief word…"

"Of course," says Optimus, and smiles politely at Mom. "If you could just excuse me a moment."

As he carefully balances his cube on his plate and gets to his feet, the whole family exchanges confused glances.

"Giving him a second chance, then!" calls out Dad jocularly to Red Alert.

"I'm sorry?" says Red Alert, taking a couple of steps toward us.

"That chap Optimus," says Dad, gesturing to Optimus, who's talking to a mech in navy armor. "You're thinking of taking him on again, are you?"

Red Alert looks stiffly from Dad to me and back again.

"It's…ok, Red Alert!" I call lightly. "Dad, shut up, ok?" I mutter. "He owns the company."

"What?" Everyone turns to face me.

"He owns the company," I say, my face hot. "So just…don't make any jokes around him."

"The mech in the jester's hat owns the company?" says Mom, looking in surprise at Red Alert.

"No! _Optimus_ does! Or at least, some great big chunk of it…" They're all still sitting there, uncomprehending. "Optimus's one of the founders of the Praxus Corporation!" I hiss in frustration. "He was just trying to be modest!"

"Are you saying that mech is…Optimus Prime?" says Blades in disbelief.

"Yes!"

There's a flabbergasted silence. As I look around, I see that a piece of energon stick has fallen out of Track's mouth.

"Optimus Prime…the multimillionaire," says Dad, just to make sure.

"_Multimillionaire?_" Mom looks totally confused. "So…does he still want the cake?"

"Of course he doesn't want the cake!" says Dad testily. "What would he want a cake for? He can buy a million fragging cakes!"

Mom's optics are darting around the picnic blanket in slight agitation.

"Quick!" she says suddenly. "Put the sticks on a nice plate. There's one in the basket—"

"They're fine as they are—" I begin.

"Millionaires don't eat energon sticks on plastic plates!" She plops the energon sticks on a nicely decorated plate and hastily starts straightening the blanket. "Powerglide! Crumbs on your armor!"

"So, how the pit do _you _know Optimus Prime?" says Blades.

"I…I just know him." I color a little. "We've worked together and stuff, and he's kind of become a…a friend. But listen, don't do anything differently," I say. Optimus has just shaken the mech's hand and is coming back toward the picnic blanket. "Just act the way you were before…"

Oh, Primus. Why am I even bothering? As Optimus approaches, my entire family is sitting bolt upright, awestruck.

"Hi!" I say as naturally as possible, then glare around at them.

"So…Optimus!" says Dad, sounding self-conscious. "Have another drink! Is this high grade all right for you? Because we can easily nip to the high grade shop, get something with a proper taste—"

"It's great, thanks," says Optimus, looking surprised.

"Optimus, what else can I get you to eat?" says Mom, flustered. "I've got some gourmet energon flakes somewhere…Hot Rod, give Optimus your plate!" she suddenly snaps. "He can't eat off plastic!"

"So…Optimus," says Blades in a matey voice. "What does a mech like you drive, then? No, don't tell me." He lifts a hand. "A Porsche. Am I right?"

Optimus looks at me with a quizzical expression, and I gaze back beseechingly, trying to convey that I'm really sorry, that basically I want to die…

"I take it my cover's been blown," he says with a grin.

"Optimus!" exclaims Tracks, who has totally regained his composure. He gives him an ingratiating smile and thrusts out his hand. "It's good to meet you."

"Absolutely!" says Optimus. "Although…didn't we just meet?"

"As _professionals_," says Tracks smoothly. "One business owner to another. Here's my information, and if you ever need any help with your office furniture requirements, please give me a call. Or if you wanted to meet up socially…perhaps the four of us could go out sometime! Have a race? Couldn't we, Hot Rod?"

What? Since when have Tracks and I every socialized together?

"Hot Rod and I are practically brothers, of course," he adds in sweet tones, putting his arm around me. "I'm sure he's told you."

"Oh, he told me a few things," says Optimus, his expression now unreadable. He takes a bite of his energon stick.

"We grew up together. We shared everything…" Tracks gives me a squeeze. He's nearly choking me!

"Isn't that nice!" says Mom in pleasure. "I wish I had a camera!"

Optimus doesn't reply. He's just regarding Tracks with raised eyebrows.

"We couldn't be closer!" Tracks's smile grows even more fawning. I try to move away, but he's squeezing me so hard, his talons are digging into my armor. "Could we, Roddy?"

Optimus reaches for his cube, takes a sip, then looks up. "So…I guess that must have been a pretty tough decision for you when you had to turn Hot Rod down," he says to Tracks in conversational tones. "You two being so close and all."

"Turn him down?" Tracks gives a tinkling little laugh. "I don't know what on cybertron you—"

"That time he applied for work experience in your firm and you turned him down," says Optimus, and takes another bite of his energon stick.

I can't quite move.

That was a secret. That was supposed to be a secret.

"What?" says Dad, half laughing. "Hot Rod applied to Tracks?"

"I…I don't know what you're talking about!" says Tracks, going a little pink.

"I _think_ I have this right…" says Optimus. "He offered to work for no credits…but you still said no." He looks thoughtful for a moment. "Interesting decision."

No one speaks. Dad's jocular smile is slowly fading.

"But, of course, fortunate for us here at the Praxus Corporation," Optimus adds. "We're _very_ glad Hot Rod didn't make a career in the office furniture industry. So I guess I have to thank you, Tracks! As one business owner to another. You did us a big favor!"

Tracks is completely puce.

"Tracks, is this true?" says Mom in a sharp voice. "You wouldn't help Hot Rod when he asked?"

"You never told us about this, Hot Rod." Dad looks completely taken aback.

"I was embarrassed, ok?"

"Bit cheeky of Hot Rod to ask," says Blades, taking a huge bite of energon cake. "Using family connections. That's why you said, wasn't it, Tracks?"

"'Cheeky'?" echoes Mom in disbelief. "Tracks, if you remember, we lent you the credits to start that company. You wouldn't _have_ a company without this family."

"It wasn't _like that_…" says Tracks, darting an annoyed look at Blades. "There's been a…a crossed wire! Some confusion!" He pats my helm and gives me an ingratiating smile. "Obviously I'd be _delighted_ to help you with your career, Roddy! You should have said before! Just call me at the office. I'll do anything I can…"

I gaze back at him, full of sudden loathing. I cannot _believe_ he is trying to wriggle out of this. He is the most two-faced fragger in the entire universe.

"There's no crossed wire, Tracks," I say as calmly as I can. "We both know exactly what happened. I asked you for help and you wouldn't give it to me. And fine—it's your company and it was your decision and you had every right to make it. But don't try to say it didn't happen, because it did."

"Hot Rod!" says Tracks, trying to reach for my hand. "Silly mech! I had no idea! If I'd known it was important…"

If he'd known it was important? How could he not have known it was important?

I jerk my hand away. I can feel all the old hurt and humiliation building up inside me, rising until suddenly the pressure is unbearable.

"Yes, you did!" I hear myself exclaiming. "You knew exactly what you were doing! You _knew_ how desperate I was! Ever since you arrived in this family, you've tried to squash me down. You tease me about my crap career. You boast about yourself. I spend my entire life feeling small and stupid. Well, fine. You win, Tracks! You're the star and I'm not. You're the success and I'm the failure. But just don't pretend to be my best friend, ok? Because you're not, and you never will be!"

I finish, and look at his gob smacked face. I have a horrible feeling I might burst into tears any moment.

I meet Optimus's optics and he gives me a way-to-go smile. Then I risk a glance at Mom and Dad. They're both looking paralyzed, like they don't know what on cybertron to do.

The thing is, our family just doesn't _do_ loud, emotional outbursts.

In fact, I'm not entirely sure what to do next myself.

"So, um, I'll be going then," I say, my voice shaking. "I'll be…off! Come on, Optimus. We've got work to do."

* * *

With wobbly legs, I turn on my heel and head off, stumbling slightly on the pavement. Adrenaline is pumping through my body. I'm so wound up, I barely know what I'm doing.

"That was fantastic, Hot Rod!" comes Optimus's voice in my ear.

"You were great! Absolutely…logistical assessment," he adds more loudly as we pass Red Alert.

"I've never spoken like that in my life!" I say. "I've never…operational management," I quickly add as we pass a couple of bots from Accounts.

"I guessed as much," he says, shaking his helm. "Primus, that cousin of yours…valid assessment of the market."

"He's a total…spreadsheet," I say quickly as we pass Prowl. "So…I'll get that typed up for you, Mr. Prime."

Somehow we make it into the house and up the stairs. Optimus leads me along a hall, produces a key, and opens a door. And we're in a room. A large, light cream-colored room. With a big double bed in it. The door closes, and suddenly all my nerves return in a whoosh. This is it. Finally, this is it. Optimus and me. Alone in a room. With a bed.

Suddenly I catch sight of myself in a glided mirror, and gasp in dismay. I'd forgotten I was in the stupid costume. My face is red and blotchy, and my optics are welling up.

This is _so_ not how I thought I was looking.

"Hot Rod, I'm really sorry I waded in there." Optimus's looking at me ruefully. "I was way out of line. I had no right to butt in like that. I just…That cousin of yours got under my armor—"

"No!" I interrupt, turning to face him. "It was _good!_ I've never told Tracks what I thought of him before! Ever! It was…it was…" I trail off, breathing hard.

For a still moment there's silence. Optimus gazing at my flushed face. My chest rising and falling; energon beating in my ears. Then suddenly he bends forward and kisses me.

His mouth is opening mine, and he's already tugging the elastic sleeves of my costume down of my shoulders. I'm fumbling for his costume button. His mouth reaches my chest plate, and I'm starting to gasp with excitement when he pulls me down onto the carpet.

Oh, my Primus, this is quick. He's ripping of the rest of the rest of my costume; my spike and valve cover are clicking open. His hands are…His fingers are…I'm panting helplessly…

We're going so fast I can barely register what's happening. This is nothing like Prowl. This is nothing like I've ever—A breem ago I was standing at the door, fully clothed with a hideous costume, and now I'm already—he's already—

"Wait," I suddenly manage to say. "Wait, Optimus. I just need to tell you something."

"What?" Optimus looks at me with urgent, aroused optics. "What is it?"

"I don't know any tricks," I whisper.

"You don't _what_?" He pulls away, looking baffled.

"Tricks! I don't know any tricks!" I say defensively. "You know, you've probably interfaced with zillions of supermodels and they know all sorts of amazing…" I trail off at his expression. "Never mind." I say quickly. "It doesn't matter. Forget it."

"I'm…intrigued!" says Optimus. "Which particular tricks did you have in mind?"

Why did I ever open my stupid mouth? Why? "I didn't!" I say growing hot. "That's the whole point—I don't _know_ any tricks—"

"Neither do I," says Optimus, totally deadpan. "I don't know one trick."

I feel a sudden giggle rise inside me. "Yeah, right."

"It's true. Not one." He pauses thoughtfully, running one finger around my shoulder. "Oh, ok. Maybe one."

"What?" I say at once.

"Well…" He looks at me for a long moment, then shakes his helm. "No."

"Tell me!" And now I can't help laughing out loud.

"Show, not tell," he murmurs against my ear, and pulls me toward him. "Did nobody ever teach you that?"

* * *

**(A/N: Ok, so I hadn't planned on actually writing a smut scene, but anyone is welcome to write one! I don't want to ruin the story by attempting to write one myself lol. So anyone who would like to continue this scene you're more than welcome too. Just let me know please! FYI: I prefer sticky smut…)**

**Anyway, sorry it's so short but I wanted to leave you guys hanging a bit, maybe something to think about over the holidays...I'm so evil :D hehe**

**But seriously guys you are all amazing! Thank you for all the Reviews, Follows, and all that other jazz :DDDD**

**Also thank you Ayami1 for betareading this chapter! I love you lots! ...well not like that, you've just got pretty amazing betareading skills :D hehe**

**Alrighty! Everyone have a lovely Thanksgiving break! Eat lots of Turkey!**

**P.S. And don't forget if you want to write the "sticky scene" let me know!**

**P.S.S. I also love comments :) (only nice ones though, not a fan of big meanies being...mean) hehe**


	17. Chapter 17

FYI: THIS STORY IS BASED OFF OF SOPHIE KINSELLA'S BOOK "CAN YOU KEEP A SECRET?"

**A/N: Sorry it's taken so long to post! I've been super busy trying to pay of some stupid tickets, ugh! One for each month! Yayyy! XP  
Anyway thanks everyone for being so patient, and if you weren't well…don't tell me! I'm sure most of you hate me for not posting in forever!  
And with that note, I give you Chapter 17!  
Enjoy!**

Sparkling - Newborn

Youngling – Child/Teenager

Astrosecond – .498 seconds

Breem - 8.3 Earth minutes

Joor - About 6.5 Earth hours

Orn - about 13 Earth days

Cycle – About 3 Earth weeks

Stellar Cycle – About 73 Earth months

Vorn - About 83 Earth years

* * *

Can you keep a secret?

Chapter 17

I'm in love.

I, Hot Rod, am in love.

For the first time ever in my life, I'm totally, one hundred percent in love! I spent all night with Optimus at the Praxus mansion. I woke up in his arms. We interfaced about ninety-five times, and it was just…perfect. (And somehow tricks didn't even seem to come into it. Which was a bit of a relief.)

But it's not just the interfacing. It's everything. It's the way he had a cube of energon waiting for me when I woke up. It's the way he sat and held me as I looked up all my horoscopes and helped me choose the best one. He knows all the crappy, embarrassing bits about me that I normally try to hide from any mech for as long as possible…and he loves me anyway.

So he didn't actually _say_ he loved me. But he said something even better. I still keep rolling it blissfully around my processor. We were lying there idly this morning when I suddenly said, without quite intending to, "Optimus… how come you remembered about Blades turning me down for work experience?"

"What?"

"How come you remembered you remembered about Blades turning me down?" I swiveled my helm toward him. "And…not just that. Every single thing I told you on the shuttle. Every little detail. About work, about my family, about Prowl… everything. You remembered it all. And I just… don't get it."

"What don't you get?" said Optimus with a frown.

"I don't get why someone like you would be interesting in my stupid, boring little life," I said, my cheek plates prickling with embarrassment.

"Hot Rod, your life is not stupid and boring."

"It is!"

"It's not."

"Of course it is! I never do anything exciting, I haven't got my own company, or invented anything—"

"You have friends who love you and whom you love," Optimus said, interrupting. "You have ambitions. You have fun. You have imagination and optimism. You have…warmth. The only person who even _tried _to help that youngling on the shuttle was you."

"Oh, well," I said, a little embarrassed. "Like that was a big success—"

"Don't put yourself down." He studied my face for a few moments. "Hot Rod, you want to know why I remember all your secrets? The breem you started talking on the shuttle, I was gripped."

"You were…gripped?" I said in total disbelief. "By me?"

"I was gripped," he repeated gently, and he leaned over and kissed me.

And the point is, if I'd never spoken to him on that shuttle—and if I'd never blurted out my stuff—then this would never have happened. We would never have found each other. It was fate. I was _meant_ to spill all my secrets.

* * *

As I arrive home I'm glowing all over. It's like something has switched on inside me. Sunstreaker is wrong. Mech's aren't enemies. Mech's are _sparkmates_. And if they were just honest with each other, right from the get go, then they'd realize it! All this being mysterious and aloof is complete rubbish. Everyone should share their secrets straightaway!

I'm so inspired, I think I'm going to write a book on relationships. It will be called _Don't be Scared to Share_, and it will show that mech's and femmes should all be honest with their partners and they'll communicate better and understand each other, and never have to pretend about anything, ever again. And it could apply to families, too. And politics! Maybe if world leaders all told one another a few personal secrets, then there wouldn't be any more wars! I think I'm really onto something!

I float up the stairs and unlock to door to our apartment. "Bee!" I call. "Bee, I'm in love!"

There is no reply, and I feel a twinge of disappointment. I wanted someone to talk to. I wanted someone to impress with my brilliant new theory of life and—

Suddenly there's a thumping sound from his room. I stand completely still in the hallway, transfixed. The mysterious thumping sounds. There's another one. Then two more. What on cybertron—

And then I see it, through the door of the sitting room. On the floor, next to the couch. A briefcase. A black leather briefcase. It's him. It's that Thundercracker guy. He's in there! Right this breem! I take a few steps forward, completely intrigued.

What are they _doing_?

I just don't believe his story that they're interfacing. But what else could it be? What else could it possibly—

Ok…just stop. It's none of my business. If Bee doesn't want to tell me what he's up to, he doesn't want to tell me.

Feeling very mature, I walk into the kitchen and grab a cube of energon.

Then I put it down again. _Why_ doesn't he want to tell me? _Why_ does he have a secret from me? We're best friends! I mean, it was _him_ who said we shouldn't have any secrets.

I can't stand this. Curiosity is niggling at me like a burr. It's unbearable. And this could be my only chance to find out the truth. But how? I can't just walk in there. Can I?

All of a sudden, a little though occurs to me. Ok, suppose I _hadn't_ seen the briefcase? Suppose I'd just innocently walked into the apartment and happened to go straight to Bee's door and happened to open it? Nobody could blame me then, could they? It would just be an honest mistake.

I come out of the kitchen, listen intently for a moment, then tiptoe back toward the front door.

Start again. I'm walking into the apartment for the first time. "Hi, Bee!" I call in a self-conscious voice. "Gosh! I wonder where he is. Maybe I'll, um, try his bedroom!"

I walk down the hallway, attempting a natural stride, arrive at his door, and knock softly.

There's no response from inside. The thumping noises have stopped.

As I face the door I feel a sudden apprehension.

Am I really going to do this?

Yes, I am. I just _have _to know.

I grasp the handle, open the door—and give a scream of terror.

The image is so startling, I can't make sense of it. Bee's bared open on the floor. They both are. He and the mech are kind of tangled together in the strangest position I've ever seen…his legs are up in the air, and Thundercracker's are twisted around him, and they're both scarlet in the face and panting.

"I'm sorry!" I stutter. "Primus, I'm sorry!"

"Hot Rod, wait!" I hear Bee shout as I scuttle away to my room, slam the door, and fall onto my bed.

My spark is pounding. I almost feel sick. I've never been so shocked in my entire life. I should _never_ have opened that door.

He was telling the truth! They _were_ interfacing! But I mean, what kind of weird, contorted interface was that? Primus. I never realized. I never—

I feel a hand on my shoulder, and scream again.

"Hot Rod, calm down!" says Bee. "It's me! Thundercrakcer's leaving…"

I can't look up. I can't meet his optics. "Bee, I'm sorry," I gabble. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to do that. I should never have…Your interfacing life is your own affair…"

"Hot Rod, we weren't interfacing, you dope!"

"You were! I saw you! You didn't have your covers on—"

"We did have them on! Hot Rod, look at me!"

"No!" I say in panic. "I don't want to look at you!"

"_Look _at me!"

Apprehensively, I raise my head, and gradually my optics focus on Bee standing in front of me.

Oh. Oh…right. His covers are on.

"Well, what were you doing, if you weren't interfacing?" I say almost accusingly.

"We were dancing," says Bee, looking embarrassed.

"What?" I am utterly bewildered.

"We were dancing, ok! That's what we were doing!"

"_Dancing_? But…why were you dancing?"

This makes no sense at all. Bee and a Vos mech called Thundercracker, dancing in his bedroom? I feel like I've landed in the middle of some weird dream.

"I've joined this group," says Bee after a pause.

"Oh, my Primus. Not a cult—"

"No, not a cult! It's just…" He bites his lip. "It's some lawyers who've gotten together and formed a…a dance group."

A dance group?

For a few moments I can't quite speak. Now that my shock's died down, I have this horrible feeling that I might possibly be about to laugh. "You've joined a group of…dancing lawyers."

"Yes." Bee nods, looking abashed. "I just…you know, I love the law. I love my job. But I've had this unfulfilled feeling for a while, like something was missing, like I wanted to express my creativity in some way."

An image has popped into my head of a bunch of portly barristers dancing around in circles and suddenly—I can't help it—I give a snort of laughter.

"You see!" cries Bee. "That's why I didn't tell you! I _knew_ you'd laugh!"

"I'm sorry!" I say. "I'm sorry. I'm not laughing. I think it's really great!" Another hysterical giggle bursts from me. "It's just…I don't know. Somehow the idea of dancing lawyers…"

"We're not all lawyers," he says defensively. "There are a couple of merchant bots, too, and a judge…Hot Rod, stop laughing!"

"I'm sorry! Bee, I'm not laughing at you—honestly!" I take a deep breath and try to clamp my lips together. But all I can see is merchant bots dressed in tutus, clutching their briefcases, dancing and frolicking around. A judge leaping across the stage, robes flying.

"It's not funny!" Bee's saying. "It's just a few like-minded professionals who want to express themselves through dance! What's wrong with that?"

"I'm sorry," I say, wiping my optics and trying to regain control of myself. "Nothing's wrong with it. I think it's brilliant. So, are you having a show or anything?"

"It's a cycle and a half away. That's why we've been doing extra practices—"

"Really?" I stare at him, my laughter melting away. "Weren't you going to _tell_ me?"

"I…I hadn't decided," he says, scuffing his foot on the floor. "I was embarrassed."

"Don't be embarrassed!" I say in dismay. "Bee, I'm sorry I laughed. I think it's brilliant. And I'm going to come and watch! I'll sit in the front row."

"Not the front row. You'll put me off."

"I'll sit in the middle, then. Or at the back. Wherever you want me." I give him a curious look. "Bee, I never knew you could dance."

"Oh, I can't," he says at once. "I'm crap. It's just a bit of fun. D'you want some energon?"

As I follow Bee into the kitchen, he gives me a raised-eyebrow look. "So, you've got a bit of nerve, accusing _me_ of interfacing. Where were you last night?"

"With Optimus," I admit with a dreamy smile. "Interfacing. All night."

"I knew it!"

"Oh, Primus, Bee. I'm completely in love with him."

"In _love_?" Bee grabs two cubes and hands one to me. "Hot Rod, are you sure? You've only known him about 5 breems.

"That doesn't matter! We're already complete sparkmates! There's no need to pretend with him…or try to be something I'm not…And interfacing with him is amazing…He's everything I never had with Prowl. Everything. And he's _interested _in me. You know, he asks me questions all the time, and he seems really genuinely fascinated by the answers!"

I spread my arms with a blissful smile. "You know, Bee, all my life I had this feeling that something wonderful was about to happen to me. I always just…_knew _it, deep down inside. And now it has."

"So, where is he now?" says Bee, sipping from his cube.

"He's going away for a bit. He's going to think up some new concepts with a creative team."

"What?"

"I dunno. He didn't say. It'll be really intense and he probably won't be able to comm me. But he's going to e-mail every orn," I add happily (**A/N: Ok so I'm not exactly sure what the equivalent of an e-mail would be in transformers era so I'm just keeping it like this.)**

"Energon treat?" says Bee, opening the tin.

"Oh, er, yes. Thanks." I take a digestive and give it a thoughtful nibble. "You know, I've got this whole new theory about relationships, and it's so simple. Everyone in the world should be more honest with each other. Everyone should share! Mech and femmes should share, families should share, world leaders should share!"

"Hmm." Bee looks at me silently for a few moments. "Hot Rod, did Optimus ever tell you why he had to go rushing off in the middle of the night that time?"

"Er, no," I say in surprise. "But…it's his business."

"Did he ever tell you what all those calls were about on your first date?"

"Well…no."

"Has he told anything about himself other than the bare minimum?"

"He's told me plenty!" I say, feeling defensive. "Bee, what's your problem?"

"I don't have a problem," he says mildly. "I'm just wondering…is it you who's doing all the sharing?"

"What?"

"Is he sharing himself with you?" He takes another sip of energon. "Or are you just sharing yourself with him?"

"We share with each other!" I say, looking away and fiddling my fingertips. "Like…like he told me all about his business partner, and his company..."

"What about himself? As a bot?"

"Yes!"

Which is true, I tell myself. Optimus's shared loads about himself with me. I mean, he's told me…

He's told me about…

Well, anyway. He probably just hasn't been in the mood for talking very much. Is that a crime?

"Have some more energon," says Bee, handing me another cube.

"Thanks." I know I sound grudging, and Bee sighs.

"Hot Rod, I'm not trying to spoil things. He does seem really lovely—"

"He is! Honestly, Bee, you don't know what he's like. He's so romantic. Do you know what he said this morning? He said the breem I started talking on that shuttle, he was gripped."

"Really?" Bee gazes at me. "He said that? That is pretty romantic."

"I told you!" I can't help beaming at him. "Bee, he's perfect!"

* * *

**Whooo! Things are really heating up! Find out what happens with Hot Rod and Optimus next chapter :D**

**Ok because I've been so mean to you guys for not posting in a while I'm going to give y'all a sneak preview for the next chapter! :) **

* * *

**Chapter 18 Sneak Preview:**

I can't cope with this. I have to get out of here. Now.

Without looking at anyone, I get to my feet and stumble out of the room. As I head down the hallway, I'm too dazed to think of anything other than I must get out of here. Now.

As I enter the empty marketing department, local comm's are shrilly ringing all around, and the habit's too ingrained; I can't ignore them.

"Hello?" I say, picking up one at random.

"So!" comes Sunstreaker's furious voice. " 'He borrows designer paints from his roommate and passes them off as his own.' Whose paints might those be, then? Bee's?"

"Look, Sunstreaker, can I just…I'm sorry. I have to go." I put the comm down.

No more comm's. Get out. Go.

As I walk by with trembling hands, a couple of bots have followed and are picking up some of the ringing comms.

"Hot Rod, your granddad's on the line," says Cliffjumper, putting his hand on the receiver. "Something about the night transport and he'll never trust you again?"

"You have a call from Harvey's Bristol Bristol Cream publicity department," chimes in Trailbreaker. "They want to know where they can send you a free case of sweet coolant."

How did they get my name? How? Has the word spread already? Are the femmes on reception _telling_ everybody?

"Hot Rod, I have your dad here," says Springer. "He says he needs to talk to you urgently."

"I can't," I say numbly. "I can't talk to anybody. I have to…I have to…"

I practically run out of the office and down the hallway to the stairs. Everywhere, bots are making their way back to their offices after watching the interview, and they all turn to gawk as I hurry by.

"Hot Rod!" As I'm nearing the stairs, a femme whom I barely know, grabs me by the arm. She weighs about 300 pounds and is always campaigning for bigger chairs and wider doorways. "Never be ashamed of your body. Rejoice in it! The cybertron mother has given it to you! If you want to come to our workshops sometime…"

I tear my arm away and start clattering down the marble stairs. But as I reach the next floor, someone else grabs my arm.

"Hey, can you tell me what charity shops you go to?" It's a mech I don't even recognize. "Because you always look really well dressed to me."

"I adore dolls, too!" A femme from Accounting is suddenly in my path. "Shall we start a little club together, Hot Rod?"

"I…I really have to go."

I back away, then start running down the stairs. But bot's keep accosting me from all directions.

"A lot of people are confused about religion. This is a leaflet about our study group—"

"Leave me alone!" I suddenly yell in anguish. "Everyone, just leave me alone!"

I sprint for the entrance, the voices following me, echoing on the marble floor. As I'm desperately pushing against the heavy glass doors, Ironhide the security guard saunters up and stares right at my covered interface equipment.

"They look alright to me, Darlin'," he says encouragingly.

I finally get the door open, then run outside and down the road, not looking right or left. At last I come to a halt in a small pedestrian square. I sink down on a bench and bury my head in my hands.

I have never been so completely and utterly mortified in all my life.

* * *

**Ok! So just a little something to look forward to :) **

**Find out what happens with Hot Rod and Optimus next chapter :D**

**Once again, so sorry for the wait!**

**Thank you all for being so wonderful and nice reviews are always welcome!**


	18. Chapter 18

FYI: THIS STORY IS BASED OFF OF SOPHIE KINSELLA'S BOOK "CAN YOU KEEP A SECRET?"

**A/N: Hello all! Thank you for the wonderful reviews. Hopefully this chapter was fast enough for you guys! I'm really dedicated to get these chapters up a lot faster b/c I feel so guilty all the time! So please sit back and enjoy :)**

**Also I would like to mention that I accidentally wrote Blades down when I really meant Tracks when Optimus and Hot Rod where talking about Track's turning him down for a job in the last chapter.**

Sparkling - Newborn

Youngling – Child/Teenager

Astrosecond – .498 seconds

Breem - 8.3 Earth minutes

Joor - About 6.5 Earth hours

Orn - about 13 Earth days

Cycle – About 3 Earth weeks

Stellar Cycle – About 73 Earth months

Vorn - About 83 Earth years

* * *

Can you keep a secret?

Chapter 18

For the next cycle or so, nothing can pierce my happiness. Nothing. I waft into work every orn, my processor feeling fluffy and light, sit all day smiling at my computer terminal, then waft home again. Sentinel's sarcastic comments bounce off me like bubbles. I don't even notice when Cliffjumper introduces me to a visiting advertising team as his personal assistant. They can all say what they like. Because what they don't know is that when I'm smiling at my computer, it's because Optimus has just sent me another funny little e-mail. What they don't know is that the mech who employs them all is in love with me. _Me._ Hot Rod. The junior.

"Well, of course, I had several in-depth conversations with Optimus Prime on the subject," I can hear Cliffjumper saying on the comm as I tidy up the proofs cupboard. "Yup. And he felt—as I do—that the concept really needed to be refocused."

Bullshit! He never had any in-depth conversations with Optimus Prime. I'm almost tempted to e-mail him straightaway and tell him how he's using his name in vain.

Except that would be a bit mean.

And besides, he's not the only one. Everyone is dropping Optimus Prime into their conversations, left, right, and center. It's like, now that he's gone, everyone's suddenly pretending they were his best friend and he thought their idea was perfect.

Except me. I'm just keeping my helm down and not mentioning his name at all.

Partly because I know that if I do, I'll blush bright red or give some huge, goofy smile or something. Partly because I have a horrible feeling that once I start talking about Optimus, I won't be able to stop. But mainly because no one ever brings the subject up with me. After all, what would I know about Optimus Prime? I'm only the crappy assistant.

The only thing clouding my life at the moment is that Sentinel's assistant still hasn't been replaced, and I'm still doing all his extra tasks, as well as trying to come up with copy for a new series of pamphlets for a tie-in with Endstar Bank. I made a real effort with them—but when I showed Sentinel my initial ideas, he was more interested in whether I'd ordered an energon basket for his stupid mother's creation day.

Actually, his mother isn't stupid. I think she has a really intellectual high paying degree. But still, it's not my job to send her a basket full of energon treats.

"Hey!" says Springer, suddenly looking up from his comm. "Optimus Prime's going to be on television!"

There's an interested frisson around the office, and I attempt to look as surprised as everyone else. Optimus mentioned he was going to be doing a TV interview. I didn't know it was going to be screened today, though.

"Is a TV crew coming to the office or anything?" says Cliffjumper.

"Dunno—"

"Ok, folks," says Sentinel, coming out of his office. "Optimus Prime has done an interview on _Business Watch_, and it's being broadcast at twelve. A television is being set up in the conference room; anyone who would like to can go along and watch there. But we need one bot to stay behind and watch the comm's." His gaze falls on me.

"What?"

"You can stay and watch the comm's," says Sentinel. "Ok?"

I knew it. I'm turning into the fragging departmental secretary.

"No! I mean…I want to watch!" I say in dismay. "Can't someone else stay behind? Cliffjumper, can't you stay?"

"_I'm _not staying!" says Cliffjumper at once. "Honestly, Hot Rod, don't be so selfish. It won't be at all interesting for you."

"Yes, it will!"

"No, it won't." He rolls his optics.

"It will! He's…he's my boss, too!"

"Yes, well," says Cliffjumper with a sarcastic smirk, "I think there's a slight difference. You've barely even spoke to Optimus Prime!"

"I have!" I say before I can stop myself. "I have! I—" I break off, my cheeks turning pink. "I…once went to a meeting he was at."

"And served him a cube of energon?" Cliffjumper meets Springer's optics with a little smirk.

I'm furious. Energon is pounding through my lines. I wish just once I could think of something really scathing and clever to put Cliffjumper down.

"Enough, Cliffjumper," says Sentinel. "Hot Rod, you're the most junior. You're staying here, and that's settled."

* * *

By five to twelve the office is completely empty. Apart from me, a cyberfly, and a whirring fax machine. Disconsolately I reach into my desk drawer and take out an energon treat. I'm just taking a big bite when the comm rings.

"Ok," comes Bee's voice down the line. "I've set it to record."

"Thanks, Bee," I say through a mouthful of energon. "You're a star.

"I can't believe you're not allowed to watch!"

"I know. It's completely unfair." I slump deeper in my chair and take another bite of my energon treat.

"Well, never mind. We'll watch it again tonight. Sunstreaker's going to record it in his room too, so we should definitely catch it."

"He's taken a sickie so he can do a home spa orn. Oh, and your dad rang," he adds cautiously.

"Really?" I feel a flicker of apprehension. "What did he say?"

"He wondered if you were ill, as you haven't called him back."

"Oh." I spin in my chair, feeling guilty.

I haven't talked to Mom or Dad since the debacle at the corporate family orn. I just can't bring myself to. It was all too painful and embarrassing, and for all I know, they've completely taken Blades' side.

So when Dad rang here on the following orn, I said I was really busy and I'd call him back…and I never did. And the same thing at home.

I know I'll have to talk to them sometime. But not now. Not while I'm so happy.

"He'd seen the commercial for the interview," says Bee. "He recognized Optimus and just wondered if you knew about it. And he said…" he pauses. "He really wanted to talk to you about a few things."

"Oh." I gaze at my pad, where I've doodled a huge spiral over a number I was supposed to be keeping.

"Anyway, he and you mom are going to be watching it," says Bee. "And your grandpa."

Great. Just great. The entire world is watching Optimus on television. The entire world except me.

When I've put the comm down, I go and get myself a spiced energon and regular energon from the new machine, which actually does make a very nice cube. I come back and look around the quiet office, then go and pour the spiced energon into Cliffjumper's plant. And some photocopier toner for good measure.

Then I feel a bit mean. It's not the plant's fault, after all.

"Sorry," I say out loud, and touch one of its leaves. "It's just your owner is a real fragging nuisance. But then, you probably knew that."

"Talking to your mystery mech?" comes a sarcastic voice from behind me, and I turn around to see Prowl standing in the doorway.

"Prowl!" I say. "What are you doing here?"

"I am on my way to watch the TV interview. But I just wanted a quick word." He takes a few steps into the office and fixed me with an accusing frown. "You lied to me."

Oh, frag. Has Prowl guessed? Did he see something at the corporate family orn?

"Er, what do you mean?" I say nervously.

"I've just had a little chat with Preceptor from Design!" Prowl's voice swells with indignation. "He's bonded. You're not going out with him at all, are you?"

He cannot be serious. Prowl didn't _seriously_ think I was going out with Preceptor from Design, did he? I mean, _everyone _knows he's bonded Drift!

"No," I say, managing to keep a straight face. "I'm not going out with Preceptor."

"Well!" says Prowl, nodding as though he's scored a hundred points and doesn't quite know what to do with them. "Well. I just do not see why you feel it necessary to lie to me. That is all. I would have thought we could be a little honest with each other."

"Prowl…it's just…It's complicated. Ok? And anyway, I didn't _lie _to you—"

"Fine. Whatever." He gives me his most wounded-martyr look and starts walking away.

"Wait!" I say suddenly. "Hang on a minute! Prowl, could you do me a real favor?" I wait until he turns, then pull a wheedling face. "Could you possibly watch the comm's here while I quickly go and watch Optimus Prime's interview?"

I know Prowl isn't my number one fan at the moment. But I don't exactly have a lot of choice.

"Could I do _what?_" says Prowl, obviously astonished at such a request.

"Could you watch the comm's! Just for half a joor. I'd be incredibly greatful."

"I cannot believe you are even _asking _me that!" says Prowl, incredulous. "You _know _how important Optimus Prime is to me! Hot Rod, I really don't know what you've turned into."

* * *

After he's stalked off, I take several messages for Sentinel, one for Springer, and one for Trailbreaker. I file a couple of letters. I address a couple of envelopes. And then, after twenty breems, I've had it.

This is stupid. I love Optimus. He loves me. I should be there, supporting him. I pick up my coffee and hurry along the corridor. The meeting room is crowded with bots, but I edge in at the back and squeeze through two mech's who aren't even _watching_ Optimus but are discussing some gambling match.

"What are _you _doing here?" says Cliffjumper as I arrive at her side. "What about the phones?"

"No taxation without representation," I hear myself responding coolly, which perhaps isn't exactly appropriate (I'm not even sure what it means) but has the desired effect of shutter him up.

I crane my neck so I can see over everyone's helm, and my optics focus on the screen…and suddenly there he is. Sitting on a chair in a studio, with his flame covered armor. There's a bright blue backdrop and the words 'Business Inspirations' behind him, and two smart-looking interviewers sitting opposite him.

There he is. The mech I love.

This is the first time I've seen him since we slept together, it occurs to me. But he looks as gorgeous as ever, his optics all dark and glossy under the studio lights.

Oh, Primus, I want to kiss him.

If no one else were here, I would go up to the television and kiss it. I honestly would.

"What have they asked him so far?" I murmur to Cliffjumper.

"They're talking to him about how he works. His inspirations, his partnership with Alpha Trion, stuff like that."

"Shh!" says someone else.

"Of course, it was tough after Alpha died," Optimus' saying. "It was tough for all of us. But recently…" He pauses. "Recently my life has turned around and I'm finding inspiration again. I'm enjoying it again."

He has to be referring to me. He has to be. I've turned his life around! That's even more romantic than 'I was gripped.'

"You've already expanded into the sports drinks market," the femme interviewer is saying. "Now I believe you're looking to expand into the mech's market."

There's a frisson around the room, and people star turning their helms.

"We're going into the mech's market?"

"Since when?"

"I knew, actually," Cliffjumper is saying with a smug expression. "Quite a few people have known for a while."

I remember those bots up in Optimus' office. That's what the pictures were for. This is quite exciting! A new venture!

"Can you give us any further details about that?" the femme interviewer is saying. "Will this be a soft drink marketed at mech's?"

"It's very early stages," says Optimus. "But we're planning an entire line. A drink, armor, a wax. We have a strong creative vision. We're excited."

"So, what's your target market this time?" asks the femme consulting her notes. "Are you aiming at merely sportmech's?"

"Not at all," says Optimus. "We're aiming at…the mech on the street."

"The 'mech on the street'?" The mech interviewer sits up, looking slightly affronted. "What's that supposed to mean? Who is this mech on the street?"

"He's twenty-something," says Optimus after a pause. "He works in an office, takes the transport to work, goes out in the evenings, and comes home on the night bus…Just an ordinary, nothing-special mech."

"There are thousands of them," puts in the femme with a smile.

"But the Praxus brand has always been associated with the rich, the powerful," chips in the mech, looking skeptical. "With competition. With wealthy values. Do you really think you can make the switch to the lower-class market? No offense, but you're not exactly an 'ordinary, nothing-special' bot."

"We've done research," says Optimus. "We feel we know our market."

"Research!" He gives a scoffing laugh. "Isn't this just another case of high-class mech's telling the lower bots what they want?"

"I don't believe so," says Optimus, still pleasantly, but I can see a slight flicker of annoyance pass across his face.

"Plenty of companies have tried to switch markets without success. How do you know you won't just be another one of them?"

"I'm confident," says Optimus.

Primus, why is he being so aggressive? I think, feeling indignant. Of course Optimus knows what he's doing!

"You round up a load of 'ordinary' mech's in some focus group and ask them a few questions! How does that tell you anything?"

"That's only a small part of the picture, I can assure you," says Optimus in even tones.

"Oh, come on," the mech says, leaning back and folding his arms. "Can a company like Praxus—can a rich mech like you—_really _tap into the psyche of, as you put it, an ordinary, nothing-special girl?"

"Yes. I can!" Optimus meets his gaze square-on. "I know this mech."

"You _know _him?" The mech raises his optic ridges.

"I know who this mech is," says Optimus, I know what his tastes are, what color he likes. I know what he eats; I know what he drinks. I know what he wants out of life. He's size eight, but he'd like to be size six. He…" He spreads his arms as though searching for inspiration. "He eats crusted knuts in the morning and dips energon treats in his hot energon."

I look in surprise at my hand, holding an energon treat. I was about to dip it into my hot energon.

And…I had crusted knuts this morning.

"We're surrounded these days by images of perfect, flossy bots," Optimus is saying with animation. "But this mech is real. He has bad-paint days and good-paint days. He wears certain types of armor brands even though he finds them uncomfortable. He writes out exercise routines, then ignores them. He pretends to read business journals but hides celebrity magazines inside them."

Just…hang on a breem. This all sounds a bit familiar.

"That's _exactly _what you do, Hot Rod," says Cliffjumper. "I've seen your copy of _STAR! _inside _Marketing Cycle_." He turns to me with a mocking laugh, and his gaze suddenly lands on my energon treat.

"He loves armors, but he's not a fashion victim," Optimus is saying on-screen. "He'll wear, maybe, flames on his armor…"

Cliffjumper's optics run in disbelief over my flame-covered armor.

"…and head-fins on his helm…"

Dazedly I life a hand and touch my head-fin's on my helm.

He can't—

He can't be talking about—

"Oh…my…Primus," says Cliffjumper

"What?" says Trailbreaker, next to him. He follows Cliffjumper gaze, and his expression changes.

"Oh, my Primus! Hot Rod! It's you!"

"It's not," I say, but my voice won't quite work properly.

"It is!"

A few bots start nudging one another and turning to look at me.

"…He reads fifteen horoscopes every orn and chooses the one he likes the best…" Optimus' voice is saying.

"It is you! It's exactly you!"

"…He scans the back of highbrow books and pretends he's read them…"

"I _knew _you hadn't read _Amazing Exceptions_!" says Cliffjumper triumphantly.

"…He adores sweet coolant…"

"_Sweet _coolant?" says Springer, turning in horror. "You cannot be serious."

"It's Hot Rod!" I can hear bots saying on the other side of the room. "It's Hot Rod!"

"_Hot Rod_?" says Bluestreak, looking straight at me in disbelief. "But…but…"

"It is not Hot Rod!" says Prowl all of a sudden with a laugh. He's standing over on the other side of the room, leaning against the wall. "Don't be ridiculous! Hot Rod's size four, for a start. Not a size eight!"

"Size four?" says Cliffjumper with a snort of laughter.

"Size _four_!" Trailbreaker giggles. "That's a good one!"

"Are you not a size four?" Prowl looks startled. "But you said—"

"I…I know I did." I swallow, my face like a furnace. "But I was…I was…"

"Do you really buy all your armor from thrift shops and pretend they're new?" says Trailbreaker, looking up from the screen.

"No!" I say defensively. "I mean…yes…maybe…sometimes…"

"He weighs 135, but pretends he weighs 125…" Optimus' voice is saying.

What? _What?_

My entire body contracts in shock.

"I do not!" I yell in outrage at the screen. "I do not weight anything like 135! I weigh…about…128…and a half…" I trail off as the entire room turns to goggle at me.

"…hates his friend's paintings…"

There's an almighty gasp from across the room.

"You hate my paintings?" comes Bluestreak's disbelieving voice.

"No!" I say, swiveling in horror. "That's wrong! I love your paintings! You know I do—"

But Bluestreak is stalking furiously out of the room.

"He cries when he hears the Merchant's songs…" Optimus' voice is saying on the screen. "But he can't stand jazz…"

Oh, no. Oh no, oh no…

Prowl is staring at me as though I have personally driven a stake through his spark.

"You can't stand…_jazz_?"

* * *

It's like a bad dream. One of those dreams where everyone can see your protoform and you want to run but you can't. I can't tear myself away. All I can do is sit in agony as Optimus' inexorable voice continues.

All my secrets. All my personal, private secrets. Revealed on television. I'm in such a state of shock, I'm not even taking them all in.

"He wears lucky covers over his interfacing equipment on first dates…he borrows designer paints from his roommate and passes them off as his own…pretends to kickbox…confused about religion…worries that his spike is too small…"

I close my optics, unable to bear it. My spike. He mentioned my _spike_. On _television_.

"When he goes out, he can play sophisticated…but on his bed…"

I'm suddenly faint with fear.

No. No. Please not this. Please, _please_—

"…he has a superhero bedspread."

A huge roar of laughter goes around the room, and I bury my face in my hands. I am beyond mortification. _No one_ was supposed to know about my superhero bedspread. _No one_.

"Is he sexy?" the interviewer is asking, and I feel a stab of shock. I can't breathe for apprehension. What's he going to say?

"He's very sexual," says Optimus at once, and all optics swivel toward me, agog. "This is a modern mech who carries protection in his subspace."

Every time I think this can't get any worse, it does.

My _mother _is watching this. My _mother_.

"But maybe he hasn't reached his full potential. Maybe there's a side of his that has been frustrated…"

I can't look at Prowl. I can't look anywhere.

"Maybe he's willing to experiment. Maybe he's had—I don't know—a sexual fantasy about his best friend…"

No! NO! My entire body clenches in horror. I have a sudden image of Bee watching the screen at home, wide-eyed, clasping a hand over his mouth. He'll know it was him. He'll know! I will never be able to look him in the optics again…

"It was a _dream_, ok?" I manage as everyone gawks at me. "Not a fantasy! They're different!"

I feel like throwing myself at the television. Draping my arms over it. Stopping him.

But it wouldn't do any good, would it? A million TVs are on, in a million homes. Bots everywhere are watching.

"He believes in love and romance. He believes his life is one day going to be transformed into something wonderful and exciting. He has hopes and fears and worries, just like anyone. Sometimes he feels frightened." He pauses, and adds, in a softer voice, "Sometimes he feels unloved. Sometimes he feels he will never gain approval from those bots who are most important to him."

As I watch Optimus' warm, serious face on the screen, I suddenly feel my optics stinging slightly.

"But he's brave and good-sparked and faces his life head-on." He shakes his helm and smiles at the interviewer. "I'm…I'm so sorry. I don't know what happened here. I guess I go a little carried away. Could we—" His voice is abruptly cut off by the interviewer.

He got a little carried away. A _little!_

"Optimus Prime, many thanks for talking to us…" the interviewer is saying. "Next cycle we'll be chatting with the charismatic king of motivational videos. Meanwhile, many thanks again to…"

She finishes her spiel and the program's music starts. Then someone leans forward and switches the television off.

For a few astroseconds the entire room is silent. Everyone is gaping at me, as though they're expecting me to make a speech. Some faces are sympathetic, some are curious, some are gleeful, and some are just jeez-am-I-glad-I'm-not-you.

"But…but I don't understand," comes a voice from across the room, and everybody's helm swivels avidly toward Prowl. He's looking straight at me, his face red with confusion. "How does Optimus Prime know so much about you?"

Oh, Primus. I know Prowl got a really good degree from the academy and everything. But sometimes he is so slow on the uptake.

Everyone's helm has swiveled back toward me.

"I…" My whole body is prickling with embarrassment. "Because we…we…"

I can't say it out loud. I just can't.

But I don't have to. Prowl's face is slowly turning different colors. "No," he gulps. He looks as though he's seen a ghost. And not just any old ghost. A really big ghost with clanky chains, going 'Whooo!'

"No," he says again. "No. I don't believe it."

"Prowl," says someone, putting a hand on his shoulder, but he shrugs it off.

"Prowl, I'm really sorry—" I falter.

"You're joking!" exclaims some mech in the corner, who is obviously even slower than Prowl and has just had it spelled out to him word for word. He looks up at me. "So, how long has this been going on?"

It's like someone opened the floodgates. Suddenly everyone in the entire room starts pitching questions at me. I can't hear myself think for the babble.

"Is that why he came to Praxus? To see you?"

"Are you going to bond with him?"

"You know, you don't _look_ like you weight 135."

"Do you really have a superhero bedspread?"

"So, in this sexual fantasy, was it just the two of you, or…"

"Have you interfaced with Optimus Prime at the office?"

"Is that why you dumped Prowl?"

I can't cope with this. I have to get out of here. Now.

Without looking at anyone, I get to my feet and stumble out of the room. As I head down the hallway, I'm too dazed to think of anything other than I must get out of here. Now.

As I enter the empty marketing department, local comm's are shrilly ringing all around, and the habit's too ingrained; I can't ignore them.

"Hello?" I say, picking up one at random.

"So!" comes Sunstreaker's furious voice. " 'He borrows designer paints from his roommate and passes them off as his own.' Whose paints might those be, then? Bee's?"

"Look, Sunstreaker, can I just…I'm sorry. I have to go." I put the comm down.

No more comm's. Get out. Go.

As I walk by with trembling hands, a couple of bots have followed and are picking up some of the ringing comm's.

"Hot Rod, your granddad's on the line," says Cliffjumper, putting his hand on the receiver. "Something about the night transport and he'll never trust you again?"

"You have a call from Harvey's Bristol Bristol Cream publicity department," chimes in Trailbreaker. "They want to know where they can send you a free case of sweet coolant."

How did they get my name? How? Has the word spread already? Are the femmes on reception _telling_ everybody?

"Hot Rod, I have your dad here," says Springer. "He says he needs to talk to you urgently."

"I can't," I say numbly. "I can't talk to anybody. I have to…I have to…"

I practically run out of the office and down the hallway to the stairs. Everywhere, bots are making their way back to their offices after watching the interview, and they all turn to gawk as I hurry by.

"Hot Rod!" As I'm nearing the stairs, a femme whom I barely know, grabs me by the arm. She weighs about 300 pounds and is always campaigning for bigger chairs and wider doorways. "Never be ashamed of your body. Rejoice in it! The cybertron mother has given it to you! If you want to come to our workshops sometime…"

I tear my arm away and start clattering down the marble stairs. But as I reach the next floor, someone else grabs my arm.

"Hey, can you tell me what charity shops you go to?" It's a mech I don't even recognize. "Because you always look really well dressed to me."

"I adore dolls, too!" A femme from Accounting is suddenly in my path. "Shall we start a little club together, Hot Rod?"

"I…I really have to go."

I back away, then start running down the stairs. But bot's keep accosting me from all directions.

"I love superheroes too!"

"A lot of people are confused about religion. This is a leaflet about our study group—"

"Leave me alone!" I suddenly yell in anguish. "Everyone, just leave me alone!"

I sprint for the entrance, the voices following me, echoing on the marble floor. As I'm desperately pushing against the heavy glass doors, Ironhide the security guard saunters up and stares right at my covered interface equipment.

"They look alright to me, Darlin'," he says encouragingly.

I finally get the door open, then run outside and down the road, not looking right or left. At last I come to a halt in a small pedestrian square. I sink down on a bench and bury my head in my hands.

I have never been so completely and utterly mortified in all my life.

* * *

**Alrighty! The drama is starting! Poor Roddy!**

**Let me know what you think! :D**


	19. Chapter 19

FYI: THIS STORY IS BASED OFF OF SOPHIE KINSELLA'S BOOK "CAN YOU KEEP A SECRET?"

**A/N: Hello all! So I said on my profile that I wasn't going to update until the end of May, but I've found myself with some free time so I quickly wrote this chapter and got it to my Betareader, Ayami1. It's not as long as my usual chapters but It's been awhile since my last chapter so just wanted to give you guys a little something.**

**Thanks to everyone who posted this story for an alert or as a favorite! And thank you for your reviews. :)**

**Thank you Ayami1 for betareading this chapter!**

**And Enjoy!**

Sparkling - Newborn

Youngling – Child/Teenager

Astrosecond – .498 seconds

Breem - 8.3 Earth minutes

Joor - About 6.5 Earth hours

Orn - about 13 Earth days

Cycle – About 3 Earth weeks

Stellar Cycle – About 73 Earth months

Vorn - About 83 Earth years

* * *

Can you keep a secret?

Chapter 19

"Are you ok? Hot Rod?"

I've been sitting on the bench for about five minutes, not seeing anything, my processor a whirl of confusion. Now there's a voice in my audio, above the everyday street sounds of bots walking by and transports grinding and cars hooting. It's a mech's voice. I open my optics and find myself looking into a pair of green optics that seem familiar.

Then suddenly I realize. It's Beachcomber from the smoothie bar.

"Is everything all right?" he's saying. "Are you ok?"

For a few moments I can't quite reply. I feel like all my emotions have been scattered on the floor like a dropped energon tray, and I'm not sure which one to pick up first.

"I think that would have to be a no," I say at last.

"Oh." He looks alarmed. "Well, is there anything I can—"

"Would you be ok if all your secrets had been revealed on television by a mech you thought you could trust?" I say shakily. "Would you be ok if you'd just been mortified in front of all your friends and colleagues and family?"

There's a bewildered silence.

"_Would _you?"

"Er, probably not?" he hazards.

"Exactly! I mean, how would you feel if somebot revelaed in public that you…wear femme's armor?"

He turns pale with shock. "I don't wear femme's armor!"

"I know you don't wear femme's armor! Or, rather…I don't _know_ that you don't…But just assuming for a moment that you did … how would you like it if somebot just _told _everyone in a so-called business interview on television?"

Beachcomber frowns, as though his processor is suddenly putting two and two together. "Wait a moment. That interview with Optimus Prime. Is that what you're talking about? We had it on in the smoothie bar."

"Oh, great!" I throw my hands in the air. "Just great! Because you know, it would be a shame if anyone in the entire universe had missed it—"

"So … that's _you_? Who reads fifteen horoscopes a day and lies about his …" He breaks off at my expression. "Sorry. Sorry. You must be feeling very hurt."

"Yes. I am. I'm feeling hurt. And angry. And embarrassed."

And I'm confused, I add silently. I'm so confused and shocked, as I feel as though I can barely keep my balance on this bench. In the space of a few breems, my entire world has turned upside down.

I thought Optimus loved me. I thought he and I—

I bury my helm in my servos.

"So … how did he know so much about you?" Beachcomber's asking. "Are you and he … an item?"

"We met on a shuttle." I look up, trying to keep control of myself. "And… I spent the entire trip telling him everything about myself. And then we went on a few dates, and I honestly thought it might be … you know..." I feel my cheeks flame crimson on top of my already painted cherry red cheek plates. "The real thing. But the truth is … he was never interested in me, was he? Not really. He just wanted to find out what an ordinary-mech-on-the-street was like. For his stupid target market. For his stupid new mech's line."

The realization hits me properly for the first time, and I feel a tear roll down my cheek, swiftly followed by another.

Optimus used me.

That's why he asked me out to dinner. That's why he was so fascinated with me. That's why he found everything I said so interesting. That's why he was _gripped_.

It wasn't love. It was business.

"I'm sorry." I gulp. "I'm sorry. I just … It's just been such a shock."

"Don't worry," says Beachcomber sympathetically. "It's a completely natural reaction." He shakes his helm. "I don't know much about big business, but it seems to me these guys don't get to the top without trampling over a few bots on the way. They'd have to be pretty ruthless to be so successful." He pauses. "Hot Rod, can I offer a word of advice?"

"What?" I look up, wiping my optics.

"Take it out in your kickboxing. Use the aggression. _Use _the hurt."

I blink in total disbelief. Was he not _listening_?

"Beachcomber … I don't _do_ kickboxing!" I hear myself crying shrilly. "I don't kickbox, ok? I never have!"

"You don't?" He looks confused. "But you said—"

"I was lying!"

There's a short pause.

"Right," says Beachcomber at last. "Well … no worries! You could go for something with lower impact." He gazes at me uncertainly. "Listen, do you want a drink? Something to calm you down? I could make you a crusted-knut blend, throw in some soothing flakes."

"No, thanks." I take a deep breath, then stand up. "I think I'll go home, actually."

"Will you be ok?"

"I'll be fine." I force a smile. "I'm fine."

But of course that's a lie, too. I'm not fine at all. As I sit on the transport going home, tears pour down my face one by one and land in big, wet drips on my armor. Bots are whispering but I don't care. Why would I care? I've already suffered the worst embarrassment possible; a few extra bots gawking is neither here nor there.

I feel so _stupid_.

Of course we weren't bond mates. Of course he wasn't genuinely interested in me. Of course he never loved me.

"Don't worry, darling!" says a large femme sitting to my left, wearing voluminous armor covered in yellow designs. "He's not worth it! Now, you just go home, wash your face, have a nice cube of energon …"

"How do you know he's crying over a mech?" chimes in a femme in dark armor. "That is such a clichéd perspective. He could be crying over anything! A piece of music, a line of poetry, world famine, the political situations…." She looks at me in expectation.

"Actually, I was crying over a mech," I admit.

The transport stops, and the femme in the dark armor rolls her optics at us and gets out. The yellow armored femme rolls her optics back.

"World famine!" she says scornfully, and I can't help giggling. "Now, don't you worry, love." She gives me a comforting pat on the shoulder as I dab at my optics. "Have a nice cube of energon, and a few nice energon treats, and have a nice chat with your mom. You've still got your mom, haven't you?"

"Actually … we're not really speaking at the moment," I confess.

"Well, then, your dad?"

I shake my helm.

"Well … how about your best friend? You must have a best friend!" The yellow femme gives me a comforting smile.

"Yes, I have got a best friend." I gulp. "But he's just bend informed on national television that I've been having secret interfacing fantasies about him."

The yellow femme regards me silently for a few moments.

"Have a nice cube of energon …" she says at last with less conviction. "And … good luck, dear."

I make my way slowly back from the transport station to our street. As I reach the corner I stop and take a few deep breaths, trying to calm my nerves.

How am I going to face Bee after what Optimus said on television. How?

This is worse than the time I threw up unproccessed energon in his parents' bathroom. This is worse than the time he saw me kissing my reflection in the mirror and saying 'Ooh, baby' in a sexy voice. This is even worse than the time he caught me writing a love letter to our academy teacher.

I'm hoping against hope that he might have suddenly decided to go out for the orn or something. But as I open the front door of the apartment, there he is, coming out of the kitchen into the hall. And as he looks at me, I can already see it in his face. He's completely freaked out.

Not only has Optimus betrayed me. He's ruined my best friendship, too. Things will never be the same between me and Bee again. Interfacing has gotten in the way of our friendship, and now we can't be friends anymore, because we want to sleep together.

No. Scratch that. We don't want to sleep together. We want to—No, the point is we _don't _want to—

Anyway. Whatever. It's not good.

"Oh!" he says, staring at the floor. "Gosh! Um, hi, Hot Rod!"

"Hi!" I reply in a strangled voice. "I thought I'd come home. The office was just too … too awful …"

I trail off, and there's the most excruciating, prickling silence.

"So … I guess you saw it," I say at last.

"Yes, I saw it. And I …" Bee clears his intakes. "I just wanted to say that … that if you want me to move out, then I will."

After twenty-one vorns, our friendship is over. One tiny secret comes out—and that's the end of everything.

"It's ok," I say, trying not to burst into tears. "I'll move out."

"No!" says Bee awkwardly. "_I'll_ move out. This isn't your fault, Hot Rod. It's been me who's been … leading you on."

"What? Bee, you haven't been leading me on!"

"Yes, I have." He looks stricken. "I feel terrible. I just never realized you had … those kind of feelings …"

"I don't!"

"But I can see it all now! I've been walking around half dressed. No wonder you were frustrated!"

"Bee, I wasn't frustrated," I say quickly. "Bee, I'm not in love with you."

"In 'like' with me, then. Whatever term you want to use."

"I'm not in 'like' with you, either!"

"Hot Rod, please!" Bee grabs my hand. "Don't be ashamed of who you love. And I promise—I'll support you a hundred percent, whatever choice you decide to make—"

"Bee, I don't love you!" I cry. "I don't need your support! I just had one dream, ok? It wasn't a fantasy. It was just a weird dream, which I didn't intend to have, and it doesn't mean I'm in love with you, and it doesn't mean anything!"

"Oh." There's a silence. Bee looks taken aback. "Oh, right. I thought it was a … a … you know." He clears his intakes. "That you wanted to …"

"No! I just had a dream. Just one, stupid dream."

"Oh. Right."

There's a long pause, during which Bee looks intently at his servos, and I study the floor.

"So … did we actually …" says Bee at last.

Oh, Primus. "Kind of," I admit.

"And … was I any good."

"What?" I gape at him.

"In the dream." He looks straight at me, his cheeks bright pink. "Was I any good?"

"Bee—"

"I was horrible, wasn't I? I was horrible! I knew it—"

"No, of course you weren't horrible!" I exclaim. "You were … you were really …"

I cannot believe I'm seriously having a conversation about my best friend's sexual prowess as a dream lover. "Look, can we just … leave the subject? My orn has been embarrassing enough already."

"Oh. Oh, Primus, yes," says Bee, suddenly full of remorse. "Sorry, Hot Rod. You must be feeling really …"

"Totally and utterly humiliated and betrayed?" I try to smile. "Yup, that's pretty much how I feel."

"Did anyone at the office see it, then?" says Bee sympathetically.

"Did anyone at the office _see_ it? Bee, they _all _saw it. They all knew it was me! And they were all laughing at me, and I just wanted to curl up and _die_."

"Really?" says Be in distress.

"It was _awful_." I close my optics as fresh mortification washes over me. "I have never felt more … exposed. The whole world knows where I get my armor from and I don't really kickbox, and … and …" My voice is wobbling more and more, and suddenly I begin to sob. "Oh, Primus, Bee. You were right. I feel like such a complete … _fool_. He was just using me, right from the beginning. He was never really interested in me. I was just a … a market research project."

"You don't know that!"

"I do! Of course I do! That's why he was gripped. That's why he was so fascinated by everything I said. It wasn't because he loved me. It was because he realized he had this target customer, right next to him. The kind of normal, ordinary mech-on-the-street he wouldn't normally give the time of day to! I mean, he said it on television, didn't he? I'm just a nothing-special mech."

"You are not," says Bee fiercely. "You are _not _nothing special!"

"I am! That's exactly what I am! I'm just an ordinary nothing. And I was so stupid, I believed it all. I honestly thought Optimus loved me. I mean, maybe not exactly loved me." I feel myself color. "But … you know. Felt about me like I felt about him."

"I know." Bee looks like he wants to cry himself. "I know you did." He leans forward and gives me a huge hug.

Then he draws awkwardly away. "This isn't making you feel uncomfortable, is it? I mean, it's not … turning you on or anything—"

"Bee, for the last time, I don't love you!" I cry in exasperation.

"Ok!" he says hurriedly. "Ok. Sorry." He gives me another tight hug, then stands up. "Come on," he says. "You need a drink."

We go into the tiny, overgrown balcony—which was described as 'spacious roof terrace' by the landlord when we first rented this apartment—and sit in a patch of sun, drinking the high-grade that Bee got duty-free last year. Each sip makes my mouth burn unbearably but, five astroseconds later, sends a lovely soothing warmth all over my body.

"I should have known," I say, turning my cube around and around. "I should have known a big, important millionaire like that would never really be interested in me."

"I just … can't believe it," says Bee, sighing for the thousandth time. "I can't believe it was all made-up. It was all so _romantic_. Changing his mind about going to Crystal City … and the transport .. .and bringing you that pink cocktail."

"But that's the point." I can feel tears rising again, and fiercely blink them back. "That's what makes it so … humiliating. He knew exactly what I would like. I told him on the shuttle I was bored with Prowl. He knew I wanted excitement and intrigue and a big romance. He just fed me everything he knew I'd like. And I believed it … because I wanted to believe it."

"You honestly think the whole thing was one big plan?"

"Of course it was a plan! He deliberately followed me around; he watched everything I did. He wanted to get into my life. Look at the way he came and poked around my room! No wonder he seems so fragging interested. I expect he was taking notes all the time. And I just … invited him in." The next gulp of high-grade makes me shudder. "I am never going to trust a bot again. Never."

"But he seemed so … nice!" says Bee. "I just can't believe he was being so cynical."

"Bee …" I look up. "The truth is, a mech like that doesn't get to the top without being ruthless and trampling over bots. It just doesn't happen."

"Doesn't it?" His brow ridges crumple. "Maybe you're right. Primus, how depressing."

"Is that Hot Rod?" comes a piercing voice, and Sunstreaker appears on the balcony, his optics narrowed. "So! Mr. I-never-borrow-your-armors. What have you got to say about my Prodo plates?"

Oh, Primus. There's no point in lying about it, is there?

"They're really pointy and uncomfortable?" I say with a little shrug, and Sunstreaker inhales sharply.

"I knew it! I knew it all along. You _do _borrow my armor. What about my Jasaph paints? What about my Galli wax?"

"_Which_ Galli wax?" I shoot back.

For a moment Sunstreaker flounders for words. "All of them!" he says at last. "You know, I could sue you for this. I could take you down!" He brandishes a pad at me. "I've got a list here of items that I fully suspect have been worn by someone other than me during the last three stellar cycles—"

"Oh, shut up about your stupid armor!" says Bee. "Hot Rod's really upset! He's been completely betrayed and humiliated by the mech he thought loved him!"

"Well, surprise, surprise, let me just faint with shock," says Sunstreaker tartly. "I could have told you that was going to happen. I _did _tell you! Never tell a mech all about yourself; it's bound to lead to trouble. Did I not warn you?"

"You said he wouldn't get bonded!" exclaims Bee. "You didn't say he would pitch up on television, telling the nation all his private secrets! You know, Sunstreaker, you could be a bit more sympathetic—"

"No, Bee, he's right," I say miserably. "He was completely right all along. If I'd just kept my stupid mouth shut, then none of this would have happened!" I reach for the high-grade and pour myself another cube. "Relationships _are _a battle. They _are _a chess game. And what did I do? I just threw all my chess pieces down on the board at once and said, 'Here! Have them all!'" I take a gulp of my drink. "the truth is, mechs and femmes should tell each other nothing. _Nothing_."

"I couldn't agree more," says Sunstreaker. "I'm planning to tell my future sparkmate as little as possible—" He breaks off as the cordless comm. in his hand rings.

"Hi!" he says, switching it on. "Who? Oh. Er, ok. Just hang on a moment."

He puts his hand over the receiver and looks at me with wide optics. "It's Optimus!" he mouths.

I'm frozen in shock.

Somehow I'd almost forgotten Optimus existed in real life. All I can see is that face on television screen, smiling and nodding and slowly leading me to my humiliation.

"Tell him Hot Rod doesn't want to speak to him!" hisses Bee.

"No! He _should _speak to him!" whispers Sunstreaker. "Otherwise, he'll think he's won!"

"But surely—"

"Give it to me!" I say, and grab the comm. out of Suntreaker's hand.

"Hi," I say in as curt a tone as I can muster.

"Hot Rod, it's me," comes Optimus' familiar voice, and I feel a rush of emotion that almost overwhelms me. I want to cry. I want to hit him, hurt him …

But somehow I keep control of myself.

"I never want to speak to you again," I say, and switch off the comm.

"Well done!" says Bee.

An instant later it rings again. "Please, Hot Rod," says Optimus, "just listen for a moment. I know you must be very upset. But if you just give me a moment to explain—"

"Didn't you hear me?" I exclaim, my face flushing. "You used me and you humiliated me and I never want to speak to you again, or see you, or hear you, or … or …"

"Taste you," puts in Sunstreaker, nodding urgently.

"… or touch you again. Never ever. Ever." I switch off the comm. march inside, and yank the line out of the wall.

Then, with my whole body trembling, just as my internal comm. begins to ring, I switch it off.

As I emerge on the balcony again, I'm still shaking with shock. I can't quite believe my perfect romance has crumbled into nothing.

"Are you ok?" says Bee anxiously.

"I'm fine. I think. A bit shaky."

"Now, Hot Rod," says Sunstreaker, examining his fingertips. "I don't want to rush you. But you know what you have to do, don't you?"

"What?"

"You have to get your revenge." He looks up and fixes me with a determined gaze. "You have to make him pay."

"Oh, no." Bee pulls a face. "Isn't revenge really undignified? Isn't it better just to walk away?"

"What good is walking away?" retorts Sunstreaker. "Will walking away teach him a lesson? Will walking away make him wish he'd never crossed you?"

"Hot Rod and I have always agreed we'd rather keep the moral high ground," says Bee determinedly. "'Living well is the best revenge.'"

Sunstreaker looks blank. "So anyway," he says at last, turning back to me. "I'd be delighted to help. Revenge is actually quite a specialty of mine, though I say it myself …"

I avoid Bee's eyes. "What did you have in mind?"

"Scrape his paintjob, shred his armor, sew energon inside his curtain and wait for them to rot …" he reels off instantly, as though reciting poetry.

"Did you learn that at the academy?" says Bee, rolling his optics.

"I'm being an activist, _actually_," retorts Sunstreaker. "We mechs have to stand up for our rights. You know, before she bonded my father, Mom went out with this scientist femme who practically jilted her. She changed her mind three weeks before the bonding ceremony—can you believe it? So one night she crept into her lab and pulled out all the plugs of her stupid machines. Her whole research ruined! She always says, That taught Skydive!"

"Skydive?" says Bee, staring at him in disbelief. "As in… _the_ Skydive?"

"That's right! Skydive."

"_The _Skydive who nearly discovered a cure for rust syndrome?"

"Well, she shouldn't have messed with Mom, should she?" says Sunstreaker mutinously. He turns to me. "Another of Mom's tips is spiced hot oil. You somehow arrange to interface with the mech again, and then you say, 'How about a little massage oil?' And you rub it into his… you know." His optics sparkle. "That'll hurt him where it counts!"

"Your _mother _told you this?" says Bee.

"Yes!" says Sunstreaker. "It was rather sweet, actually. On my eighteenth birthday she sat me and my twin down and said we should have a little chat about mechs and femmes—"

Bee is staring at him incredulously. "In which she instructed you both to rub spiced oil into mech's genitals?"

"Only if they treat you badly!" says Sunstreaker in annoyance. "What is your _problem, _Bee? Do you think you should just let mech's walk all over you and get away with it?"

"I'm not saying that!" says Bee. "I just wouldn't get my revenge with… spiced hot oil!"

"Well, what would you do, then, clever clogs?" says Sunstreaker, putting his hands on his hips.

"Ok!" says Bee. "_If_ I were going to stoop so low as to get my revenge—which I never would, because personally I think it's a huge mistake…" He pauses. "I'd do exactly what he did. I'd expose one of _his _secrets."

"Actually… that's rather good," says Sunstreaker grudgingly.

"Humiliate _him,_" says Bee with a tiny air of vindication. "Embarrass _him_. See how he likes it!"

They both turn to look at me expectantly. "But I don't know any of his secrets," I say.

"You must!" says Sunstreaker.

"I don't! Bee, you had it right all along. Our relationship was completely one-sided. I shared all my secrets with him… but he didn't share any of his with me. He didn't tell me anything. We weren't bond mates. I was a completely deluded moron."

"Hot Rod, you weren't a moron," says Bee, putting a hand on mine. "You were just trusting."

"Trusting… moron… it's the same thing…"

"You must know _something_!" says Sunstreaker. "You slept with him, for goodness' sake! He must have some secret. Some… weak point! It could be anything. Anything at all. Think back!"

I close my optics and cast my processor back. But my processor's swirling a bit from all that high-grade. Secrets … Optimus's secrets… Think back …

Gygax.

I open my optics, feeling a tingle of exhilaration. I do know one of his secrets.

"What?" says Sunstreaker. "Have you remembered something?"

"He …" I stop, feeling torn.

I did make a promise to Optimus.

But then, so what? So fragging what? My spark swells in emotion again. Why on cybertron am I keeping any stupid promise to him? It's not like he kept my secrets to _himself_, is it?

"He was in Gygax!" I say. "The first time we met after the shuttle, he asked me to keep it a secret that he was in Gygax."

"Why did he do that?" says Bee.

"I dunno."

"What was he doing in Gygax?" puts in Sunstreaker.

"I… dunno."

There's a pause.

"Hmm," says Sunstreaker kindly. "It's not the _most_ embarrassing secret in the world, is it? I mean, plenty of smart bots live in Gygax. Haven't you got anything better?"

"No… that's it." I say dejectedly.

"Well, then, you'll have to make something up," says Sunstreaker. "You know, before the affair with the scientist, Mom was treated very badly by some politician mech. So she made up a rumor that he was taking bribes from the Decepticon party, and passed it around the Council. She always says, That taught Blackout a lesson!"

"Not … _the _Blackout?" Bee says.

"Er, yes! I think that was him."

"The disgraced Home Secretary?" Bee looks aghast. "The one who spent his whole life fighting to clear his name and ended up in a mental institution?"

"Well, he shouldn't have messed with Mom, should he?" says Sunstreaker, sticking out his chin. A beeper goes off. "Time for my 2nd wax!"

As he disappears back into the house, Bee shakes his helm.

"He's nuts," he says. "Totally nuts. Hot Rod, you are _not_ making anything up about Optimus Prime."

"I won't make anything up!" I say. "Who do you think I am? Anyway." I stare into my high-grade, feeling my exhilaration fade away. "Who am I kidding? I could never get my revenge on Optimus. I could never hurt him. He doesn't _have _any weak points. He's a huge, powerful millionaire." I take a miserable slug of my drink. "And I'm a nothing-special … crappy … ordinary… nothing."

* * *

So I know it's seems super short but I wanted to get something up quickly right before I start my Final Exams. I will try and get the next chapter up as soon as my final's are done.

Once again thank you Ayami1 for your betareading and inputs :)

Thank you and I hope you enjoyed this chapter!

Reviews are always welcome :)


	20. Chapter 20

FYI: THIS STORY IS BASED OFF OF SOPHIE KINSELLA'S BOOK "CAN YOU KEEP A SECRET?"

**Hello! I would like to say I'm sorry that it took be about half a year, maybe more, to finally update. I'm probably still not any better in my private life, and I won't bore you with the details, but for the first time in a long time I had the sudden urge to write the other day and I wasn't going to pass the opportunity up.**

**This chapter I actually found the other day. I had apparently started writing it and never finished it. So I'm just posting it as I wrote it last year and start afresh on the next chapter.**

**Thank you all for the kind messages and words of encouragement. I'm glad that some of you have not given up on me and that really pushed me to finish this chapter. This one is actually pretty short, but I already finished the next chapter too, so I'm going to post both.**

**So I'm giving you all two chapters because of the extremely long wait. The next chapter is way longer than this one, but not my longest. I'll try and post again soon, but I'm not making any promises yet.**

Sparkling - Newborn

Youngling - Child

Breem - 8.3 Earth minutes

Joor - About 6.5 Earth hours

Orn - about 13 Earth days

Cycle – About 3 Earth weeks

Stellar Cycle – About 73 Earth months

Vorn - About 83 Earth years

* * *

Can you keep a secret?

Chapter 20

The next morning I wake up sick with dread. I feel exactly like a five-vorn-old sparkling who doesn't want to go to school. A five-vorn-old sparkling with a severe hangover, that is.

"I can't go," I say as I'm about to leave. "I can't face them."

"Yes, you can!" says Bee, putting his servos on my shoulders. "It'll be fine. Just keep your helm up."

"What if they're horrible to me?"

"They won't be horrible to you! They're your friends! Anyway, they'll probably all have forgotten about it by now!"

"They won't! Can't I just stay home with you!" I grab his servo. "I'll be really good. I promise—"

"Hot Rod, I've explained to you," says Bee in patient mother tones. "I've got to go to court today." He pries my servo out of his. "But I'll be here when you get home. And we'll have something really nice for dinner. Ok? Now, go on." He opens the door to our apartment. "You'll be fine!"

Feeling like I'm walking to my death, I go down the stairs slowly and open the front door. I'm just stepping out of the house when two vans pulls up at the side of the road. One mech transforms and grabs the biggest bunch of metal flowers I've ever seen, all tied up with dark green ribbon, out of the back of the other mech's open back doors. The second mech transforms and squints at the number on our house.

"Hello," he says. "I'm looking for a Hot Rod."

"That's me!" I say in surprise.

"Aha!" He smiles, and holds outs a pad. "Well, this is your lucky day! If you could just sign here."

The bouquet is unbelievable. Each metal flower has different colors and are shaped beautifully with precise carvings. There's red, purple, dark red, dark green, pale green, yellow, pink, orange, blue, and many other colors I don't even know the name of. Every flower is uniquely different but beautiful all the same.

Ok, I may not know what they're all called. But I do know one thing. These flowers are expensive. There's only one bot who could have sent them.

"Wait," I say without taking the pad. "I want to check who they're from."

I grab the card, rip it open, and scan down the long message, not reading any of it until I come to the name at the bottom.

_Optimus_.

I feel a huge dart of stung pride. After all he did, Optimus thinks he can win me over with some manky bunch of flowers?

All right, huge, deluxe bunch of flowers, but that's not the point.

"I don't want them, thank you." I say.

"You don't _want _them?" the delivery mechs both look baffled.

"What's going on?" comes a breathless voice beside me and I look up to see Bee gawking at the bouquet. "Oh, my Primus. Are they from Optimus?"

"Yes. Please take them away," I say to the delivery mechs.

"Wait!" exclaims Bee, grabbing them by the stems. "Let me just smell them." He buries his face in the blooms and inhales deeply. "Wow! That's absolutely incredible! I've never _seen_ flowers as amazing as this." He looks at the mech with the pad still in his servo. "So, what will happen to them?"

"Dunno." He shrugs. "They'll get chucked away, I suppose."

"Gosh." He glances at me. "That seems like an awful waste."

"Bee, I can't _accept _them!" I exclaim. "I can't! He'll think I'm saying everything's ok between us!"

"No, you're quite right," says Bee, sounding reluctant. "You have to send them back." He touches a pink velvety petal. "It is a shame, though."

"Send what back?" comes a sharp voice behind me. "You are joking, aren't you?"

Oh, for Primus's sake. Now Sunstreaker has arrived in the street. "You're not sending those back!" he cries. "I'm giving a dinner party 5 orns! They'll be perfect!" He grabs the label. "Smythe and Foxe! Do you know how much these must have cost?"

"I don't care how much they cost!" I exclaim. "They're from Optimus! I can't possibly keep them!"

"Why not?"

He's unbelievable.

"Because… because it's a matter of principle! If I keep them, I'm basically saying, 'I forgive you.'"

"Not necessarily!" retorts Sunstreaker. "You could be saying, 'I _don't_ forgive you.' Or you could be saying, 'I can't be bothered to return your stupid flowers—that's how little you mean to me.'"

There's silence as we all consider this. The thing is, they _are _pretty amazing flowers.

"So, do you want them or not?" says one of the delivery mech's.

"I…" Oh, Primus, now I'm all confused.

"Hot Rod, if you send them back, you look weak," says Sunstreaker firmly. "You look like you can't bear to have any reminder of him in the house. But if you keep them, then you're saying, 'I don't care about you!' You're standing firm! You're being strong! You're being—"

"Oh, Primus, ok!" I say, and grab the pad. "I'll sign for them. But could you please tell him that this does _not _mean I forgive him, and that he's a cynical, heartless, despicable user, and furthermore, If Sunstreaker weren't having a dinner party, these would be straight in the trash." As I finish signing, I'm red-faced, and I stamp a period so hard it cracks the screen. "Can you remember all that?"

"Love," says the deliver mech, "I just work at the depot."

"I know!" says Bee. He grabs the pad back and prints _without prejudice_ clearly under my name.

"What does that mean?" I say.

"It means 'I'll never forgive you, you complete bastard… but I'll keep the flowers anyway.'"

"And you're still going to get even," adds Sunstreaker.

* * *

**Thank you all once again for the wait and Chapter 21 is posted also.**


	21. Chapter 21

FYI: THIS STORY IS BASED OFF OF SOPHIE KINSELLA'S BOOK "CAN YOU KEEP A SECRET?"

**Next chapter as promised. It's only about 3,500 words, not very long, but it'll have to do until I have more time.**

**Also I would like to mention that this chapter and the last chapter were NOT betaread. I didn't think it fair to ask my old betareader for this story to betaread this, because of how long it's been. ****So any mistakes are mine alone and I'm sorry about that.**

**Thank you all for being patient and I hope you enjoy**

Sparkling - Newborn

Youngling - Child

Breem - 8.3 Earth minutes

Joor - About 6.5 Earth hours

Orn - about 13 Earth days

Cycle – About 3 Earth weeks

Stellar Cycle – About 73 Earth months

Vorn - About 83 Earth years

* * *

Can you keep a secret?

Chapter 21

It's one of those amazingly bright, crisp mornings that make you feel like Praxus really is the best city on Cybertron. The sun is glinting off the metallic towers and structures, and the clean city looks like a picture. And as I stride onto work, my spirits can't help rising a little.

Maybe Bee's right. Maybe everyone at work will already have forgotten about the whole thing. I mean, let's get real here…it wasn't _that _big a deal! It wasn't _that_ interesting! Surely some other piece of gossip will have come along in the meantime. Surely everyone will be talking about… the weather. Or politics or something. Exactly.

I arrive at the Praxus Corporation building, push open the glass door to the foyer, and walk in, my helm held high (A/N: haha that sounds funny…helm held…).

"…a superhero bedspread!" I immediately hear from across the lobby. A mech from Accounting is talking to a femme with a 'Visitor' badge, who is listening avidly.

"…interfacing with Optimus Prime all along?" comes a voice from above me, and I look up to see a group of femme's walking up stairs.

"It's Prowl I feel sorry for," one replies. "That poor mech…"

"…pretended he loved jazz!" someone else is saying as they get out of the elevator. "I mean, why one cybertron would you do that? Maybe we should introduce him to Jazz from Sales…" The femmes giggling trailed off as they stepped out of my hearing range.

My optimism instantly dies away, and I consider running away and spending the rest of my life under my berth.

But I have to face them. I have to do this.

Clenching my fists at my sides, I slowly make my way up the stairs and along the hallway to the marketing department. Everyone I pass either blatantly goggles at me or pretends they're not looking, and at least five conversations are hastily broken off as I approach.

As I reach the door to the marketing department, I take a deep sigh, then walk in, trying to look as unconcerned as possible.

"Hi, everyone," I say, sitting down at my desk.

"Hot Rod!" exclaims Cliffjumper in tones of sarcastic delight. "Well, I never!"

"Good morning, Hot Rod," says Sentinel, coming out of his office and giving me an appraising look. "You ok?"

"Fine, thanks."

"Anything you'd like to…talk about?" To my surprise, he looks like he genuinely means it.

But honestly. What does he think? That I'm going to go in there and sob on his shoulder, 'That glitch Optimus Prime used me'?

"No," I say, my face plates prickling. "Thanks, but…I'm ok."

"Good." He pauses, then adopts a more businesslike tone. "Now, I'm assuming that when you disappeared yesterday, it was because you decided to work from home."

"Er, yes." I clear my intakes. "That's right." Surprised Sentinel is being so nice…for once.

"No doubt you got lots of useful tasks done?"

"Er, yes. Loads."

"Excellent. Just what I thought. All right, then, carry on. And the rest of you"—Sentinel looks around the office as though in warning—"remember what I said."

"Of course!" says Cliffjumper at one. "We all remember!"

Sentinel disappears into his office again, and I focus rigidly on my comm unit as it warms up. It'll be fine, I tell myself. I'll just concentrate on my work, completely immerse myself…

Suddenly I become aware that someone's humming a tune quite loudly.

It's something I recognize. It's…

It's the Merchant's.

And now a few others around the room are joining in on the chorus.

"Close to yoooou…"

"All right, Hot Rod?" says Springer as I look up suspiciously. "D'you want a shoulder to cry on?"

"Close to yoooou…" everybody trills in unison again, and I hear muffled laughter.

I'm not going to react. I'm not going to give them the pleasure.

As calmly as possible, I click onto my messages, and give a small gasp of shock, I normally get about ten messages every morning, if that. Today I have ninety-five.

Dad: I'd really like to talk…  
Femme from Accounting whose name is apparently Firestar: I've already got two more bots for our club…  
Vibes: I know where you can get really comfy armor…  
Blurr: So how long has this been going on?!  
Hoist: Re: the body awareness workshop…

I scroll down the endless list and suddenly feel a stabbing in my spark.

There are three from Optimus.

What should I do? Should I read them?

My servo hovers over his message. Does he at least deserve a chance to explain?

"Oh, Hot Rod," says Cliffjumper innocently, coming over to my desk with a bag. "I've got this piece of armor I wondered if you'd like. It's a bit too small for me, but it's very nice. And it should fit you, because…" He pauses, and catches Trailbreaker's optics. "…it's a size four."

Immediately both of them erupt into hysterical giggles.

"Thanks, Cliffjumper," I say shortly. "That's really sweet of you."

"I'm off for a cube," says Skyfire, standing up. "Anybody want anything?"

"Make mine a Harvey's Bristol Cream," says Springer brightly.

"Ha ha," I mutter.

"Oh, Hot Rod, I meant to say," Springer adds, sauntering over to my desk, "that new secretary in Admin. Have you seen him? He's quite something, isn't he?"

He winks at me, and I stare at him blankly for a moment, not understanding.

"Nice, yellow paint…" he adds. "Name also starts with a 'B'… close enough right?"

"Shut _up_!" I cry furiously, my face flaming red. "I'm not … I'm not… Just frag off, all of you!"

My servo trembling with anger, I swiftly delete each and every one of Optimus' messages. He doesn't deserve anything. No chance. Nothing.

I rise to my peds and stride out. I head for the wash room, slam the door behind me, and rest my hot helm on the mirror. Hatred for Optimus Prime is bubbling through me like hot oil. Does he have any idea what I'm going through? Does he have any idea what he's done to me?

"Hot Rod!" A voice interrupts my thoughts. Immediately I feel a jolt of apprehension.

Bluestreak has quietly come into the wash room, and now he's standing right behind me, holding his solvent bag. His face is reflected in the mirror next to mine…and he isn't smiling. I suddenly fear for my life at this moment.

"So," he says in a strange voice. "You don't like my paintings."

Oh, Primus. What have I done? Have I unleashed the side of Blue that no one's ever seen before? Maybe he'll impale me with a paintbrush, I find myself thinking wildly.

"Bluestreak," I say. "Blue, please listen. I never meant… I never said…"

"Hot Rod, don't even try." He lifts his servo. "There's no point. We both know the truth."

"He was wrong!" I say quickly. "He got confused! I meant I don't like … um …_stainings_. You know—"

Bluestreak cuts me off with an odd smile. "You know, I was pretty upset yesterday, but after work I went straight home and I called my mom. And do you know what she said to me?"

"What?" I say apprehensively.

"She said…she doesn't like my paintings, either."

"_What?_"

"And neither does my grandma!" His face flushes, and suddenly he looks like the old Blue again. "Or any of my relatives! They've all been pretending for years, just like you! It all makes sense now!" His voice rises in agitation. "You know, I made my grandcreator a whole couch cover with a painting design I was perfecting last vorn, and she told me that robbers had stolen it. But I mean, what kind of robbers steal a painted couch cover?"

"Blue, I don't know what to say…"

"Oh Roddy, why couldn't you have told me before? All that time. Making stupid presents that people didn't want."

"Oh, Primus, Blue, I'm sorry!" I say, filled with remorse yet oddly relieved. If Blue's calling me Roddy again, it must mean he forgives me. "I'm so sorry. I just…didn't want to hurt you!"

"I know you were trying to be kind. But I feel really stupid now!"

The door suddenly opens, and Flareup from Accounting comes in. There's a pause as she stare at us both, opens her mouth, closes it again, then disappears into the femme cubicles turning on the water (A/N: Yeah I'm not sure if they have water on Cybertron…probably don't but how else to they take showers and stuff? Also I know is seems weird, what with showers at work, but it happens you know, some people just don't every go home, they have to shower some time).

"So…are you ok?" says Blue in a lower voice.

"I'm fine," I mutter. "You know…"

Yeah. I'm so fine, I'm hiding in the wash room rather than facing my colleagues.

"Have you spoken to Optimus?" he says tentatively.

"No. He sent me some stupid flowers. Like, 'Oh, that's ok, then'. He probably didn't even order them himself. He probably got Mirage to do it."

There's the sound of the water turning off, and Flareup comes out of the cubicle again.

"Well…this is the solvent I was talking about," Blue says quickly, handing me a bottle.

"Thanks," I say. "You say it, um shines _and _sparkles?"

"It's ok!" exclaims Flareup. "I'm not listening!" She looks at herself in the mirror, checking some wet spots on her armor, dries them, then gives me a curious look. "So, Hot Rod, are you going out with Optimus Prime?"

"No," I say curly. "He used me and he betrayed me, and to be honest, I'd be happy if I never saw him again in my whole life."

"Oh, right!" she says brightly. "It's just, I was wondering. If you're speaking to him again, could you just mention that I'd really like to move to the PR department?"

"What?"

"If you could just casually drop it in that I have good communication skills and I think I'd be really suited to PR."

Casually drop it in? What, like, 'I never want to see you again, Optimus, and by the way, Flareup thinks she'd be good at PR'?

"I'm not sure," I say at last. "I just…don't think it's something I could do."

"Well, I think that's really selfish of you, Hot Rod!" says Flareup, looking offended. "All I'm asking you is, if the subject comes up, to mention that I'd like to move to PR! Just mention it! I mean, how hard is that?"

"Flareup, frag off!" says Blue. "Leave Hot Rod alone!"

"I was only _asking_!" says Flareup. "I suppose you think you're above us now, do you?"

"No!" I exclaim in shock. "It's not that—" But Flareup's already flounced out.

"Great," I say with a sudden wobble to my voice. "Just great! Now everyone's going to hate me, on top of everything else."

I still can't quite believe how everything has turned upside down, just like that. Everything I believed in has turned out to be false. My perfect bot has turned out to be a cynical user. My dreamy romance was all just a fabrication. I was happier than I'd ever been in my life. And now I'm just a stupid, humiliated laughingstock.

Oh, Primus. My optics are tearing up again.

"Are you ok, Roddy?" says Blue, looking at me in dismay. "Here, take this." He rummages in his bag and pulls out a rag.

"Thanks," I say, and swallow hard. I dab the rag on my optics and force myself to breathe deeply until I'm completely clam again.

"I think you're really brave," says Blue, watching me. "In fact, I'm amazed you even cam in this orn. I would have been _far _too embarrassed."

"Blue," I say, turning to face him. "Last orn I had all my most personal, private secrets broadcasted on TV." I spread my arms. "How could anything possibly be more embarrassing than that?"

"Here he is!" comes a ringing voice behind us, and Trailbreak bursts into the wash room. "Hot Rod, your creators are here to see you!"

* * *

No, I do not believe this. I do not _believe_ this.

My creators are standing by my desk. Dad's standing stiffly and Mom's trying her hardest to look relaxed but a hint of apprehension is shown in both of their optics, and they're kind of holding a bunch of beautiful metallic flowers between them, of course not as nice…I mean ugly as the organic ones Optimus sent me, as they really are ridiculously expensive. And the entire office is gawking at them as though they're rare creatures of some sort.

"Hi, Mom," I say in a voice that has suddenly gone rather husky. "Hi, Dad."

What are they _doing _here?

"Hot Rod!" says Dad, making an attempt at his normal, jovial voice. "We just thought we'd…pop in to see you."

"Right," I say, nodding. As though this were a perfectly normal course of events.

"We brought you a little present," says Mom in a bright voice. "Some flowers for your desk." She puts the bouquet down awkwardly. "Look at Hot Rod's desk, Powerglide. Isn't it smart! Look at the…the comm unit!"

"Splendid!" says Dad, giving it a little pat. "Very…very fine desk indeed."

"And are these your friends?" says Mom, smiling around the office.

"Er, kind of," I say scowling, as Cliffjumper beams back at her.

"We were just saying, the other day," continues Mom, "how _proud_ you should be of yourself, Hot Rod. Working for a big company like this! I'm sure many bots would be very envious of your career! Don't you agree, Powerglide?"

"Absolutely!" says Dad. "You've…you've done very well for yourself, Hot Rod."

I'm so taken aback, I can't even open my mouth. I meet Dad's optics, and he gives a strange, awkward little smile. And Mom's hands are trembling slightly as she fusses with the flowers.

They're nervous, I realize with a jolt of shock. They're both _nervous._

I'm just trying to get my helm around this as Sentinel appears at the door of his office. "So, Hot Rod," he says, optics oddly shining. "You have visitors, I gather?"

"Er, yes," I say. "Sentinel, these are, um, my creators, Powerglide and Moonracer."

"Enchanted," says Sentinel with a polite incline of his helm.

"We don't want to be any bother—" says Mom.

"No bother at all," says Sentinel, and bestows a charming smile on her. "Unfortunately, the room we _usually_ use for family bonding sessions is being redecorated…"

"Oh!" says Mom, unsure as to whether he's being serious or not. "Oh, dear!"

"So perhaps, Hot Rod, you'd like to take your creators out for…shall we call it an early lunch?"

I glance suspiciously at him then back at my parents, then look up at the clock. It's a quarter to ten.

"Thanks, Sentinel," I eventually say, gratefully.

* * *

This is completely surreal.

It's the middle of the morning. I should be at work. And instead, I'm walking down the street with my creators, wondering what on cybertron we're going to say to one another.

I can't even _remember _the last time it was just my creators and me. Just the three of us—no Grandpa, no Tracks, no Blades. It's like we've gone back in time fifteen vorns ago.

"We could go in here…" I say as we reach an energon café.

"Good idea!" says Dad in hearty tones, and pushes the door open. "We say your friend Optimus Prime on television yesterday," he adds.

Well, let's just get right to it. "He's not my friend," I reply, and he and Mom glance at each other.

We sit down at a wooden table and a waiter brings us each a menu, and there's silence.

Oh, Primus. Now _I'm _feeling nervous.

"So, um…" I begin, then stop. What I want to say is 'Why are you here?' But it might sound a bit rude. "What…brings you to Praxus?" I say instead.

"We just thought we'd like to visit you!" says Mom, looking at the menu. "Now, shall I have a cube of hot energon…or—what's this? A coolate?"

"I want a normal cube of hot energon," says Dad, peering at the menus with a frown. "Do they have such a thing?"

"If they don't, you'll have to have a cube of hot oil and spoon off the froth," says Mom.

I don't believe this. They have driven 200 miles. Are we just going to sit here and talk about hot beverages al day?

"Oh, and that reminds me," adds Mom casually. "We've bought you a little something, Hot Rod. Didn't we, Powerglide?"

"Oh…right," I say in surprise. "What is it?"

"A gold driver's license," says Mom, and looks up at the waiter who's appeared at our table. "Hello! I would like some hot oil, my husband would like a filter of hot energon if that's possible, and Hot Rod would like—"

"A _gold_ license?" I echo in disbelief. Gold driver's licenses are extremely expensive and hard to get. It allows you to actually be able to drive on the main streets of Praxus, I mean you can't have everyone driving on the streets, they're be no room to actually drive!

"Gold…," echoes the waiter, and gives me a suspicious look. "You want energon?"

"I'd…I'd like a cube of hot oil, please."

"And a selection of oil cakes," adds Mom. "Thank you!"

"Mom…" I put a servo to my helm as the waiter disappears. "What do you mean, you've bought me a gold license?"

"Just a little thing, dear. You ought to be able to drive to get to work! It's not safe, you traveling on all these transports. Grandpa's quite right."

"But…but I can't afford this," I say. "I can't even…What about the money I owe you? What about—"

"Forget the money," says Dad. "We're going to wipe the slate clean."

"What?" I'm more mystified than ever. "But we can't do that! I still owe you—"

"Forget the money," says Dad, a sudden edge to his voice. "I want you to forget all about it, Hot Rod. You…you don't owe us anything. Nothing at all."

I honestly cannot take all this. I look from Dad to Mom. Then back to Dad. Then, very slowly, back to Mom again.

And it's really strange. But it almost feels as though we're seeing one another properly for the first time in vorns. As though we're seeing one another and saying hello and kind of…starting again.

"We were wondering what you thought about taking a little holiday next vorn!" says Mom. "With us."

"Just…us?" I say, looking around the table.

"Just the three of us, we thought." She gives me a tentative smile. "It might be fun! You don't have to, of course, if you've got other plans—"

"No! I'd like to!" I say quickly. "I really would. But…but what about…"

I can't even bring myself to say Tracks' name.

There's a tiny silence, during which Mom and Dad look at each other, and then away again.

"Tracks sends his love, of course!" says Mom, as though she's changing the subject completely. She clears her intakes. "You know, he thought he might visit Crystal City next vorn. Visit his father! He hasn't seen him for at least five vorns, and maybe it's time they…had some time together."

"Right!" I say, feeling totally stupefied. "Good idea."

I can't believe this. Everything's changed. It's like the entire family has been thrown up in the air and has fallen down in different positions, and nothing's like it was before.

"We feel, Hot Rod," says Dad, and stops. "We feel…that perhaps we haven't been…that perhaps we haven't always noticed—" He breaks off and rubs his nose vigorously.

"Hot _oil_," says the waiter, planting a cube in front of me. "Filt-_er_ed hot en_-er_gon, hot _oil_…oil _cake_…rusted _cake_…cool—"

"Thank you!" interrupts Mom. "Thank you so much. I think we can manage from here." The waiter disappears again, and she looks at me. "Hot Rod, what we want to say is…we're very proud of you."

Oh Primus, I think I'm going to cry. "Right," I manage.

"And we…" Dad begins. "That is to say…we both…your mother and I…" He clears his intakes. "We've always…and always will… both of us…"

He pauses, breathing rather hard. I don't quite dare say anything.

"What I'm trying to say, Hot Rod…" he starts again. "As I'm sure you…as I'm sure we all…which is to say…"

He stops again and wipes his perspiring face with a cloth.

"The fact of the matter is that…is that…"

"Oh, just tell your son you love him, Powerglide, for once in your fraggin life!" cries Mom.

"I…I…love you, Roddy!" says Dad in a choked-up voice. "Oh, Primus," He brushes roughly at his optics.

"I love you, too, Dad," I say, my throat tight. "And you, Mom."

"You see!" says Mom, dabbing at her optics. "I knew it wasn't a mistake to come!" She clutches a hold of my servo, and I clutch hold of Dad's servo, and for a moment we're in a kind of awkward group hug.

"You know, we're all sacred links in the eternal circle of life," I say with a sudden swell of emotion.

"What?" Both my creators look at me blankly.

"Er, never mind." I release my servo and take a sip of my hot oil, and look up.

Optimus Prime is standing at the door of the energon café.

* * *

**Thanks for reading and sticking around. I hope you like both of the chapters. And I'm think, most definitely, it won't take another half a year before I post again…at least I hope not.**

**I do promise to take some time, at least on the weekends, to start writing the next chapter so I can post it as soon as possible.**


	22. Chapter 22

**Disclaimer: This story is based off of Sophie Kinsella's book. I don't own any of the transformers mentioned in this story.**

**Sorry everyone about the last chapter…I didn't mean to leave it at a cliffhanger. Just kind of happened. I tried not to leave this one as a cliffhanger either.**

**Thanks everyone for your continued support and your awesome reviews!**

Sparkling - Newborn

Youngling - Child

Astrosecond - .498 seconds

Breem - 8.3 Earth minutes

Joor - About 6.5 Earth hours

Orn - about 13 Earth days

Cycle – About 3 Earth weeks

Stellar Cycle – About 73 Earth months

Vorn - About 83 Earth years

* * *

**Can You Keep a Secret?**

**Chapter 22**

I almost can't breathe as I see him through the glass doors. He puts out a servo, the door pings, and suddenly he's inside the energon café.

As he walks toward our table, I feel my façade begin to crumble. This is the mech I thought I was in love with. This is the mech who completely used me. Now that the initial shock has faded, all the feelings of pain and humiliation are threatening to take over and turn me into a puddle of goo again.

But I'm not going to let them. I'm going to be strong and dignified. "Ignore him," I say to Mom and Dad.

"Who?" says Dad, turning around in his chair. "Oh!"

"Hot Rod, I want to talk to you," says Optimus.

"Well, I don't want to talk to you."

"I'm so sorry to interrupt." He glances at Mom and Dad. "If we could just have a moment…"

"I'm not going anywhere!" I say in outrage. "I'm having a nice cup of energon with my creators!"

"Please." He sits down at an adjoining table. "I want to explain. I want to apologize."

"There's no explanation you could possible give me." I look fiercely at Mom and Dad. "Pretend he isn't there. Just carry on."

There's silence. Mom and Dad are giving each other surreptitious looks, and I can see Mom mouthing something. She abruptly stops as she sees me looking at her, and takes a sip of her energon.

"Let's just…have a conversation!" I say desperately. "So, Mom."

"Yes?" she says hopefully.

My processor is blank. I can't think of anything. All I can think is that Optimus is sitting four feet away.

"How's Grandpa?" I say at last.

"He's, er, fine!" Mom shoots a glance at Optimus.

"Don't look at him!" I mutter. "And…and Dad?" I persevere loudly. "How's the turbo club?"

"It's…also fine!" says Dad.

"Where do you play?" asks Optimus.

"You're not in the conversation!" I cry, turning furiously on my chair.

There's silence.

"Dear me!" says Mom suddenly in a stagy voice. "Just look at the time! We're due at the…the…sculpture exhibition."

What?

"Lovely to see you, Roddy—"

"You can't go!" I say in panic. But Dad's already putting credits on the table while Mom stands up and pushes her chair in.

"Just listen to him," she whispers, bending down to give me a kiss.

"Bye, Hot Rod," says Dad, and squeezes my servo. And within the space of about thirty astroseconds, they're gone.

I cannot believe they have done this to me.

"So," says Optimus as the door pings shut.

With a set jaw, I shift my chair around so I can't see him.

"Hot Rod, please."

I shift my chair around again with even more determination, until I'm facing the wall.

The only thing, is now I can't reach my hot oil.

"Here." I look around to see Optimus has moved his chair right up next to mine, and he's holding out my cup to me.

"Leave me alone!" I say angrily, leaping to my peds. "We have nothing to talk about. Nothing."

I harshly push in my chair and stalk out of the energon café, into the busy street. A moment later, I feel a servo on my shoulder.

"We could at least discuss what happened."

"Discuss what?" I wheel around. "How you used me? How you betrayed me?"

"Ok, Hot Rod. I understand I embarrassed you. But…is it really such a big deal?"

"Such a big _deal_?" I cry in disbelief, nearly knocking over a femme with an oil cake stand. "You came into my life. You fed me this huge, amazing romance. You made me fall in lo—" I halt myself. "You said you were gripped by me. You made me…care for you…and I believed every single word." My voice has a treacherous wobble. "I believed you, Optimus. But all along, you had an ulterior motive. You were just using me for your stupid research. All the time, you were just…_using _me."

Optimus looks horrified. "No," he says. "No, wait. You have this wrong." He grabs my arm. "That's not the way it was. I didn't set out to use you."

How does he have the _nerve_ to say that?

"Of course you did!" I say, wrenching my arm out of his grasp, jabbing the button at a pedestrian crossing. "Of course you did! Don't deny it was me you were talking about in that interview! Don't deny you had me in your processor! Every detail was me! Every slagging detail!"

"Ok." Optimus is clasping his helm. "Ok. Listen. I don't deny I had you in my processor. I don't deny you filtered into…But that doesn't mean…" He looks up. "I have you on my processor most of the time. That's the truth. I have you on my processor."

The pedestrian crossing suddenly starts bleeping, telling us to cross. This is my cue to storm off and him to come running after me—but neither of us moves. I _want _to storm off, but somehow my body isn't doing it. Somehow my body wants to hear more.

"Hot Rod, when Alpha and I started Praxus Corporation, you know how we worked?" Optimus' dark optics are burning into mine. "You know how we made our decisions?"

I shrug with a tell-me-if-you-like look.

"Gut instinct. Would _we _buy this? Would _we_ like this? Would _we_ go for this? That's what we asked each other. Every day, over and over." He hesitates. "During the past few weeks, I've been immersed in this new line we've been working on. And all I've found myself asking is…would Hot Rod like it? Would Hot Rod drink it? Would Hot Rod buy it?" Optimus closes his optics for a moment, then opens them. "Yes, you got into my thoughts. Yes, you fed into my work. Hot Rod, my life, and my business have always gotten confused. That's the way I've always been. But that doesn't mean my life isn't real." He hesitates. "It doesn't mean that what we had…we have…is any less real."

He takes a deep breath and shoves his hands to his sides.

"Hot Rod, I didn't lie to you. I didn't _feed_ you anything. I was gripped by the the breem I met you on the shuttle. The breem you looked at me and said the thing about doing the Heimlich maneuver **(A/N: I couldn't really think of an alternative to this so I'm just going with it)**…I was hooked. Not because of business…because of _you_. Because of who you are. Every single detail. From the way you pick out your favorite horoscope every morning, to the way you wrote the letter from Leopold, to you exercise plan on the wall. All of it."

His gaze is fixed on me, and I feel myself wavering.

Just for an instant.

"That's all very well," I say, my voice shaking. "But you embarrassed me. You _humiliated _me!" I turn on my heel and start striding across the road again.

"I didn't mean to say so much," says Optimus, following me. "I didn't mean to say anything! Believe me, Hot Rod, I regret it as much as you do. The breem we stopped, I asked them to cut out that part. They promised me they would. I was…" He shakes his helm. "I don't know, goaded. I got carried away…"

"You got carried _away_?" I feel a renewed surge of outrage. "Optimus, you exposed every single detail about me!"

"I know, and I'm sorry."

"You told the world about my armor…and my interfacing life…and my superhero berthcover, and you _didn't _tell them it was an ironic statement."

"Hot Rod, I'm so sorry—"

"You told them how much I weigh!" My voice rises to a shriek. "And you got it _wrong_!"

"Hot Rod, really, I'm sorry—"

"Sorry isn't good enough!" I wheel around to face him. "You've ruined my life!"

"I ruined your life?" He gives me a strange look. "Is your life ruined? Is it such a disaster for bots to know the truth about you?"

"I…I…" For a moment I flounder. "You don't know what it was like for me!" I say, on firmer ground. "Everyone was laughing at me. Everyone was teasing me, in the whole office. Cliffjumper was teasing me—"

"I'll fire him at once." Optimus makes a sweeping gesture with his arm.

I'm so shocked, I burst into laughter, then immediately quell it. "And Springer was teasing me—"

"I'll fire him, too." Optimus thinks for a moment. "How about this: anyone who teased you, I'll fire."

This time I can't help giggling out loud. "You won't have a company left."

"So be it. That'll teach me. That'll teach me to be so thoughtless."

For a moment we're just looking at each other.

"Would you like to buy some lucky heather?" A femme in pink armor suddenly thrusts a tin-wrapped item in my face, and I shake my helm irritably.

"Hot Rod, I want to make this up to you," Optimus says as the femme moves away. "Could we have lunch? A drink? Or…something?"

I can feel part of me starting to unbend; I can feel part of me starting to believe me.

"I don't know," I say, rubbing the bridge of my nose plate.

"Things were going so well, before I had to go and frag it up."

"Were they?" I say.

"Weren't they?" Optimus hesitates. "I kind of thought they were."

My processor is buzzing. There are things I need to say. There are things I need to get into the open. A thought suddenly crystallizes. "Optimus…what were you doing in Gygax? When we first me."

At once, Optimus' face closes up and he looks away. "Hot Rod…I'm afraid I can't tell you that."

"Why not?" I say, trying to sound light.

"It's…complicated."

"Ok, then." I think for a moment. "Where did you go rushing off to that night with Mirage? When you had to cut our date short?"

"Hot Rod—"

"How about the night you had all those calls? What were those about?"

This time he doesn't even bother answering.

"I see." I push my servo across the top of my helm, trying to stay calm. "Optimus, did it ever occur to you that in all our time together, you've hardly told me anything about yourself?"

"I…guess I'm a private person," says Optimus. "Is it such a big deal?"

"It's…quite a big deal to me. I shared everything with you. Like you said. All my thoughts, all my worries-everything. And you've shared nothing with me."

"That's not true." He steps forward.

"Practically nothing, then. I mean, you didn't even tell me you were going to be on TV!"

"It was just a dumb interview, for Primus' sake! Hot Rod, you're overreacting."

"I told you all my secrets," I say stubbornly. "You didn't tell me any of yours."

Optimus sighs. "With all due respect, Hot Rod, I think it's a little different—"

"What?" I'm totally shocked. "Why…why would it be any different?"

"You have to understand. I have things in my life that are very sensitive…complicated…very important…"

"And I _don't_? You think my secrets are less important than yours? You think I'm less hurt by your blurting them out on TV?" I'm starting with anger, with disappointment. "I suppose that's because you're so huge and important and I'm…What am I again, Optimus" I can feel my optics filling with tears. "A 'nothing-special mech'? And 'ordinary, nothing-special mech'?"

Optimus winces, and I can see I've hit a nerve. He closes his optics, and for a long time I think he isn't going to speak.

"I didn't mean to use those words," he says. "The breem I said them, I wished I could take them back. I was…I was trying to evoke something very different from that…a kind of image." He looks up. "Hot Rod, you _have _to know I didn't mean—"

"I'm going to ask you again!" I say, resolute. "What were you going in Gygax?"

There's silence. As I meet Optimus' optics, I know he's not going to tell me.

"Fine," I say, trying to keep control of my voice. "That's fine. I'm obviously not as important as you. I'm just some amusing mech who provides you with entertainment on shuttles and gives you ideas for your business."

"Hot Rod—"

"The thing is, Optimus, a real relationship goes two-ways. A real relationship is based on equality. And trust. So why don't you just go and be with someone on your level, who you can share your precious secrets with? Because you obviously can't share them with me."

I turn sharply before he can say anything else, and stalk away in tears.

* * *

How I got through the afternoon, I don't know. I sit at my desk, my face numb, while Cliffjumper and Springer persist with their oh-so-funny running commentaries. Cliffjumper starts by asking me if I can recommend a good set of exercise routines. Then Springer starts dropping _Amazing Exception_ references into every sentence.

"…He's a real hard-aft. Sorry, Hot Rod, by 'hard-aft' I mean 'miser'."

"You're so hilarious," I say without raising my helm. "Really, you should have your own show."

Trailbreaker, meanwhile, is obviously feeling sorry for me, so he comes over to my desk, and makes conversation about my parents. Which, to be honest, is even less welcome.

By the time I arrive home that evening, my processor is throbbing and I feel like crawling into a hole. I open the door of the apartment to find Bumblebee and Sunstreaker in a full-scale argument about animal rights.

"The turbofox _like_ being made into wax—" Sunstreaker is saying as I push open the door to the living room. He breaks off and looks up. "Hot Rod! Are you alright?"

"No." I slump down onto the couch and wrap myself up in the red blanket that Sunstreaker's brother, Sideswipe, gave him. "I had a huge fight with Optimus."

"With _Optimus_?"

"You saw him?"

"He came to…well, to apologize, I guess."

Bumblebee and Sunstreaker exchange looks.

"What happened?" says Bee, sitting down next to me and hugging his knees. "What did he say?"

"He said…he didn't ever mean to use me. He said I got in his thoughts. He said he'd fire everyone in the company who teased me."

"Really?" says Bee. "Gosh. That quite romant—" He coughs, and pulls an apologetic face. "Sorry."

"He said he was really sorry for what happened, and he didn't mean to say all that stuff on the TV, and that our romance was…Anyway. He said a lot of things. But _then_ he said…" I feel fresh indignation rising. "He said his secrets were more important than mine."

Simultaneous gasps of outrage occur.

"No!" says Bee.

"Fragger!" says Sunstreaker. "What secrets?"

"I asked him about Gygax. And rushing off from the date." I meet Bee's optics. "And…all those things he would never talk to me about."

"And what did he say?" says Bee.

"He wouldn't tell me. He said it was too 'sensitive and complicated'."

"Sensitive and _complicated_?" Sunstreaker looks galvanized. "Optimus has a sensitive and complicated secret? You never mentioned this before! Hot Rod, this is totally perfect! You find out what it is…and then you expose it!"

Primus, he's right. I could do it. I could get back at Optimus. I could make him hurt like I've been hurt. "But I have no idea what it is," I say.

"You can find out!" says Sunstreaker. "That's easy enough. The point is, you know he's hiding something."

"There's definitely some strange stuff going on," says Bee thoughtfully. "He has all these calls he won't talk about, he rushes off mysteriously from you date—"

"He rushed off mysteriously?" says Sunstreaker avidly. "Where? Did he say anything? Did you overhear anything?"

"No!" I say, flushing slightly. "Of course not! I don't…I would never _eavesdrop_ on bots!"

Sunstreaker gives me a close look. "Don't give me that! Yes, you did! You did hear something. Come on, Hot Rod. What was it?"

My processor flashed back to that evening. Sitting on the bench, sipping the pink coolant. The stars are bright, Optimus and Mirage are talking in low voices…

"It was nothing much," I say reluctantly. "I just heard him say something about…having to transfer something…and Plan B…and something being urgent."

"Transfer what?" says Bee suspiciously. "Funds?"

"I dunno. And…they said something about flying back up to Gygax."

Sunstreaker is cluthing his helm in agitation. "Hot Rod, I do not believe this. You've had this information all this time? This has to be something juicy. It _has _to be. If only we knew more…" He exhales in frustration. "You didn't happen to have a recording device or anything with you?"

"Of course I didn't!" I say with a little laugh. "It was a date! Do _you _normally take recording devices on a…" I trail off, incredulous at his expression. "Sunstreaker. You don't."

"Not _always_!" he says, shrugging. "Just if I think it might come in…Anyway. That's irrelevant. The point is, you have information, Hot Rod. You have power. You find out what this is all about—and then you expose him! That'll show Optimus Prime who's boss! That'll get your revenge!"

For a moment I feel sheer, powerful exhilaration. That would pay Optimus back. That would show him. Then he'd be sorry! Then he'd see I'm not just some nothing nobody mech. _Then _he'd see.

"So…so how would I do it?"

"First we try to work out as much as we can ourselves," says Sunstreaker. "Then I've got access to various…bots who can help get more information." He gives me a wink. "Discreetly."

"Private detectives?" says Bee in disbelief. "Are you for real?"

"And then we expose him! Mother's got contacts at _all_ of the newpads."

My spark is thumping. Am I really talking about doing this?

"A very good place to start is the trash," adds Sunstreaker knowledgeable. "You can find _all _sorts of things just by looking through somebody's trash."

And suddenly it's like sanity comes flying in through the window. "Trash?" I say in horror. "I'm not looking in any trash bins! In fact, I'm not doing this, full stop! It's a crazy idea."

"You can't get all precious now, Hot Rod!" says Sunstreaker tartly, putting his servos on his hips. "How else are you going to find out what his secret is?"

"Maybe I don't _want _to find out what his secret is," I retort, feeling a sudden sting of pride. "Maybe I'm not interested."

I hunch my shoulders and wrap the blanket around me even more tightly.

So Optimus has got some huge secret he can't trust me with. Well, fine. Let him keep it. I'm not going to demean myself by grubbing after it. I'm not going to start poking around trash bins. I don't care what it is. I don't care about him.

"I want to forget about it," I say morosely. "I want to move on."

"No, you don't!" retorts Sunstreaker. "Don't be stupid, Hot Rod! This is your big chance for revenge! We are _so_ going to get him." I have never seen Sunstreaker look so animated in my life. It's kind of scary. He reaches for a pad on the table and begins to write. "Right, so, what do we know? Gygax…Plan B…transfer…"

"The Praxus Corporation doesn't have offices in Gygax, does it?" says Bee, thoughtfully.

I turn my helm in disbelief. He's scribbling on a pad, too, with exactly the same preoccupied look he gets when he's solving one of his geeky puzzles. I can see the words 'Gygax,' 'transfer,' and 'Plan B,' and a place where he's jumbled all the letters 'Gygax' and tried to make a new word out of them.

"Bumblebee, what are you doing?"

"I'm just…fiddling around," he says, and blushes. "I might go and look some stuff up on the net, just out of interest."

"Look—just stop it, both of you!" I say. "If Optimus doesn't want to tell me what his secret is, then I don't want to know."

Suddenly I feel completely drained by the day. And bruised. I'm not interested in Optimus' mysterious secret life. I don't want to think about it anymore. I want to have a nice, long, hot bath and go to recharge and just forget I ever met him.

* * *

**I updated as fast as I could and for me…I thought it was pretty fast :)**

**Scarlet Thorn: I hope I fixed the "present-past tense" confusion. I'm probably not going to have the rest of this story betaread because there's not point when there's only a few chapters left. So there's probably going to be some more mistakes but hopefully it doesn't make anything too confusing. If it does let me know. That goes for anyone else also. Also thanks for leaving a review practically every chapter :)**

**I know it seems a little angsty right now, things will start to look up soon…maybe :)**

**Thank you everyone who has stuck with this story this long. I know some people stop reading after the first couple chapters because it doesn't seem that good, I know because people have told me, but I'm glad for all those people who have decided to continue on and realize this story is worth the read.**

**Sorry got a little sentimental. Any questions or comments or anything leave a review or message me!**

**Thanks,**

**OPG**


	23. AN: IMPORTANT! PLEASE READ!

**Hi everyone. This is a very important author's note that I wish you would all read as it will explain why I've been absent these past months.**

I know it's been a couple months since I've posted anything and I'm really sorry about that. I've just had one thing after another just pile on top of me:

School/grades, my grandma was diagnosed with breast cancer, finding a job, then working, summer school, issues with my transcript, planning my sister's graduation party, etc. And I just found out this morning that my great-aunt just passed away at 4am so I'll be going to her funeral in a couple days.

I've literally had not time to write! Every day I wake up at 6:30am to get ready for summer school which is at 8am-11:20. Then I have work from noon to 7:30pm. I come home exhausted from standing for 7 ½ hours straight (I work at a bakery). And I still have to finish homework from two of my summer classes.

It's also been really hard on my family finding out my grandma has breast cancer. She's been doing chemo therapy for a couple months now and has lost all of her hair. It was really shocking and sad to see all her beautiful curly hair gone. She's getting surgery done to remove both her breasts in a month. The doctors say she has a high chance of survival (80-90%) which is better than the last time she was diagnosed with ovarian cancer (about 40% chance of survival).

And then our great-aunt just passed away! She was a very sweet old lady and we will all miss her greatly. She lived a long and healthy life of 95 years. I'm glad she's at peace now because I know these last years have been hard on her physically. May you rest in peace Aunt Maggie!

So I'm very sorry to all my faithful readers that it's been so long since I've posted anything. I know this is the second time I've gone months without posting anything but I hope my excuses this time will allow you guys to be a little lenient with me!

Thank you all for sticking with me even when it seemed I had given up on this story. **I HAVE NOT GIVEN UP ON THIS STORY**, but I'm just taking a break until things are less hectic. I can tell you that I'm pretty sure **I can start writing again around the end of July or sometime in August**.

**Thank you so much!**

**OPG**


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